


Doubt

by ReganX



Category: The Tudors
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-29
Updated: 2012-03-01
Packaged: 2017-10-31 22:18:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 265,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/348925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReganX/pseuds/ReganX
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anne Boleyn has been convicted of treason. King Henry VIII, her husband of almost three years, believes that this is true until he hears something that robs him of his certainty. If he is going to sign her death warrant, he can't afford to doubt her guilt but he can't keep himself from doing so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**_15th May 1536_ **

Her verdict came as no surprise.

In a way, Anne's trial was little more than a formality. Smeaton and Brereton had confessed their crimes and Norris had been found guilty when he faced trial. If those three men were guilty, then Anne, their partner in crime, could not be innocent. As Queen of England, and as a peer of the realm in her own right, she, like her brother, was entitled to be tried by a jury of fellow peers instead of in an ordinary court like the others but it would have been nothing short of ludicrous for those peers to have acquitted her of the charges laid against her.

With George Boleyn, there had been a chance. He was Anne's brother, devoted to his sister and affectionate towards her, which was natural enough, and harmless. Henry hadn't wanted to believe that the young man, of whom he had become rather fond over the past years and who had been a good companion to him, could have committed such a vile, unnatural crime, anymore than he wanted to believe that Anne, the woman with whom he had lived as man and wife for three years, was so depraved that she would be capable of seducing even her own brother, for carnal pleasure or in the hopes that he would sire a son on her, a bastard child whom Henry would believe to be his own son, never thinking to be suspicious if the baby boy bore a strong resemblance to his uncle. There had been a possibility that George would be innocent but the evidence against him had clearly been compelling, for the twenty-six peers sitting in judgment had unanimously voted him guilty, after spending only a short time deliberating over the evidence and witness testimonies presented to them.

Revolted by the thought that his brother-in-law had been his wife's lover, that the two of them might even have shared the bed that he himself lay with her in, Henry was able to sign George's death warrant without hesitation, affixing his name to the document drafted for him by one of Cromwell's clerks and authorizing the Constable of the Tower to arrange for George Boleyn, Viscount Rochford, to be executed by either hanging, drawing and quartering or by beheading, according to the King's pleasure.

He would decide later whether he would be merciful and grant the young man the quicker, more dignified and more painless death, a mercy usually meted out to all highborn traitors, regardless of the severity of their crimes, or if he would rather that he endure the awful, bloody and agonizing end meted out to traitors of humble birth, a method of execution designed both to make the victim's last moments as terrible and as painful as they could possibly be and to make an example for those who witnessed the execution, as a warning to anybody else who considered committing a crime. He would also have to decide whether he would allow George the dignity of a relatively private execution within the precincts of the Tower, with a limited number of people permitted to be present for it or if he would order that his end should be a public one at Tyburn.

After sprinkling the first death warrant with sand to dry the ink of his signature, he set it aside and picked up the second warrant, laying it on the desk before him. He dipped his quill in ink, carefully wiping off the excess so that his signature would not be smudged or blotted and he held it poised over the parchment, ready to sign but hesitating.

Two words.

That was all that was required of him.

All he had to do was write down Henry Rex and he could wash his hands of this whole sordid affair, wash his hands of that whore. Once the warrant was signed, it would be conveyed to Sir William Kingston, the Constable of the Tower, who would be able to make all the necessary arrangements for the execution and before the week was out, Anne Boleyn, the woman whom he had once believed to be his loving and devoted wife, the woman who had made such a fool of him for so long, would be dead and he would be a free man, free to move on with a new wife, a woman who was truly worthy of him.

Thinking of Jane brought a hint of a smile to his lips. Surely she was an angel sent to him by God, a sign that in this corrupt, slippery world, there was still goodness and purity to be found, if one knew where to look. All those years he had made a fool of himself chasing Anne, so besotted with her that he could not see that she was leading him a merry dance for ambition's sake, and all that time, what he wanted – what he needed – had been tucked away in obscurity in the countryside, in Wolf Hall, where a virtuous, untouched maiden awaited him.

If only he could have seen Jane first!

How much more pleasant his life might have been if she had been the one he made his wife.

It was strange, almost frightening to think that if he and Brandon had not ridden out so far, if he had not felt as though he could not bear to return to the palace yet, as though he could not bear to see Anne, and if they had not had the need to seek out Wolf Hall and Sir John Seymour's hospitality that night, he might never have met Jane, might never have known that such sweetness, gentleness and purity could exist.

God had surely been guiding their horses that day, leading them to ride further and further away from London as they rode, leading Henry to the woman that He wanted him to make England's new Queen, a woman who was truly worthy of the role, a fitting wife for him and a fitting mother to the sons they would surely be blessed with as soon as their union was solemnized.

Once the warrant was signed, it would only be a matter of days before he could be with his sweet Jane honourably, before he could have all that he desired... so why was he hesitating?

Why was he finding it so difficult to write two little words, to end this matter once and for all?

Was this some witchcraft of Anne's? Was she reaching out with some kind of dark power, preventing him from breaking the final chain that bound him to her, clinging to him with the last vestiges of her strength and refusing to allow him to move on from her? No, that could not be the case. Anne was in the Tower, behind a bolted door and under heavy guard, too far away from him for her dark magic to hold any sway over him.

He was safe from her but he still could not bring himself to sign the damned thing.

Why?

Without meaning to do it, he set the quill down, tracing the words written on the parchment with a gentle finger.

First her name; Anne, Queen of England, four words that made this document unique. No Queen of England had ever been condemned to death under the law before. Those of royal blood had been murdered before, and under Henry's father's reign, the young Earl of Warwick had been executed for treason, though his only real crime was the Plantagenet blood flowing through his veins, but Kings and Queens were set above the law, they were not answerable to them as lesser folk were.

Although Cranmer, even now, was hard at word trying to find grounds for Henry's marriage to Anne to be declared invalid, as Henry had no intention of allowing that whore to leave this life bearing the title of his wife or as Queen of England, or to allow her daughter to continue to be his heir or to rank above any daughters that Jane bore, after her mother's death – and he thought that once she had given him a Prince of Wales and a Duke of York, he would have liked a daughter by her, a girl with both her mother's beauty and her sweet, gentle and obedient nature – both titles were still hers when she was brought to trial and when she was sentenced to death, something that had reportedly caused a stir among the people, who were both amazed and troubled that an anointed Queen could be brought to trial like a common criminal.

To Henry's indignation, there were even rumours that Anne's trial was an unfair one, and that she was convicted of adultery not because she was guilty but because he had tired of her and wished to replace her with another wife. His love for Jane had nothing to do with Anne's conviction! She had only herself and her own lust and evil to blame for her downfall; even if he wished to be free to marry Jane, he would never have ordered the peers acting as Anne's judges to condemn her unjustly.

He tore his eyes away from the details of the offences for which she was condemned, looking instead to the sentence; ...to be burned or beheaded at the King's pleasure.

The idea of letting her burn had its appeal. After everything she had done to him, the thought of condemning her to die by fire, a death that he knew would be slow, agonizing and terrible, gave him a thrill of sadistic pleasure, pleased to think that he might be able to make her feel the kind of pain that she had inflicted on him. After the sins Anne had committed in life – and he was certain that those she was condemned for were merely a few of the many offences she had committed; she had been condemned for adultery, accused of imagining his death but they had not had the evidence to be able to see her brought to trial and condemned for poisoning Katherine, or for trying to do the same to Mary – he was convinced that she was bound for Hell as soon as her soul quitted her body, there to spend eternity in torment in the Devil's fiery kingdom and it seemed fitting to give her a taste of what she must surely endure afterwards... but he hesitated. He couldn't sign his name.

He could be merciful, Henry told himself. Christ himself was merciful, even to sinners. There would be enough fire awaiting Anne once she died; he did not have to be cruel before then, he could allow her the quicker death by decapitation. He would even send for the executioner of Calais, a skilled swordsman who would ensure her the most painless death.

To his dismay, even this concession could not allow him to pick up the quill again and sign his name to it. It was as though some unseen hand was preventing him.

Unbidden, the memory of the last time he had seen Anne came to mind.

_The bottom of Anne's gown was muddy._

_It seemed strange that that should be the first thing that caught his attention about her. Anne was always so careful – so vain – about her appearance, never anything but immaculately coiffed and gowned in the latest, most exquisite French fashions but today, the train of her light green, almost white, brocade gown dragged in the mud and strands of her hair escaped from the simple twist it had been pinned in as she followed him._

_She carried Elizabeth in her arms, struggling to manage both the weight of the toddler, who had grown a great deal over the past year or so, from an infant into a pretty and clearly intelligent little girl, and the heavy train of her gown before giving up on the latter and concentrating on keeping a secure hold of the child she carried. Their daughter was scared, he could tell that much from the expression on her face. She was bewildered and frightened by what was happening. Anne had undoubtedly taken the child out of her nursery, hoping to use her… to use his love for their daughter to soften his anger towards her, as though she thought that his love for their child – if Elizabeth was even his child! – could induce him to forget what he had heard and to pretend that nothing was amiss, for her sake._

_"Henry!" Her voice had a desperate edge to it, one that he had never heard from her before. She had always been so confident, facing down setbacks without allowing anybody to see her fears but now that she knew that she was caught out, exposed as the whore and the traitor that she was, her courage and her dignity had deserted her and she was reduced to pleading and desperation._

_He turned away from her. He didn't want to see her, not now, not when he knew the truth about her. She followed, almost running as she tried to keep up with him, hampered by both the cumbersome skirts of her gown and Elizabeth's weight in her arms._

_"Please! Henry, please! For the love you bear our child – for the love of Elizabeth! Have mercy!"_

_He didn't turn back, half-afraid that if he did, if he looked at her face, he might strike her, strangle her with his own hands or take his dagger and plunge it into her heart, before their young daughter's eyes. He fully intended to ignore her, to walk away and never turn to look back but he couldn't keep himself from responding, from allowing himself to give voice to some of the anger and betrayal he was feeling. "You lied to me! You've always lied to me!"_

_"No!"_

_Despite his resolve not to look at her, he whirled around, pointing an accusing finger in her face. "You were not a virgin when you married me! You were not what you seemed! Your father and your brother arranged everything!" He almost thought that he could have forgiven her for lying about her virginity, even though he burned with embarrassment at the thought of how foolish he must have seemed when he refused to believe anybody, including Brandon, who dared to suggest that the woman he intended to make his next wife and the next Queen of England was not the untouched maiden she claimed to be, he might have been able to accept that that was a natural lie for an unmarried girl to tell, particularly a girl whose elder sister had the reputation that Mary Boleyn had earned for herself, and that it would have been difficult for Anne to admit that she had lied later, but he could never forgive her for the fact that their relationship had been a lie, one she had entered into at the urging of her male relatives, who hoped to profit from the connection and not because she cherished any affection for him as a man._

_How they must have laughed at him amongst themselves, every time he poured his heart out in a letter and every time he pressed a gift on her, beseeching her to accept it for his sake!_

_"No!" Anne denied it vehemently, hurrying after him when he turned to walk away again. "I loved you." She quickened her pace, hurrying to stand in front of him, to force him to look at her as she pleaded with him. "I loved you. And I love you still."_

_He almost believed her. A part of him wanted to believe her. A part of him **wanted** to allow himself the comfort of accepting her words as true and of ignoring all that he had been told, wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her, to apologize for ever having doubted her and promise her that everything would be well now, to pretend that none of this had happened but he wouldn't – he couldn't – allow himself to do that, not now. He knew too much for him to ever be able to go back to the way things had been._

_Anne's fingers clutched desperately at the fur trimming of his coat as she continued to plead with him. "Please, after everything that we've been to each other, after everything we were, please." He tried to push past her but she wasn't prepared to let him pass. She climbed up a shallow flight of stone steps, tightening her grip on Elizabeth as she made her final appeal. "One more chance. One more." Her blue eyes were wide and earnest, as though willing him to believe that she could give him the male heir he craved if he would only give her another chance._

_He couldn't believe it. She thought that this was about a **son**? She thought that, after everything that had happened, she could still save her skin if she gave him a son? She thought that he would agree to give her a chance, that she could tempt him with the prospect of a son, that he was foolish enough to trust her and that he was so desperate for a male heir that he would blindly accept the boy she bore – if she was even capable of bearing one! – and make him Prince of Wales, even though, for all he knew, the brat might be Smeaton's or Brereton's or Norris' or even an incestuous bastard born of an unholy coupling between brother and sister?_

_If barrenness was the only crime she had committed against him, he might have been able to give her the chance she pleaded for; it was under three years since Elizabeth's birth, after all, and Anne was still young, young enough to be able to bear many other children, so he might have been able to allow her a year to try again, though no more than that, as he was getting no younger himself and could not afford to wait much longer for his son._

_If barrenness was the only crime she had committed against him, he would have seen to it that she was well cared for after the annulment of their marriage, certainly better cared for than Katherine had been. She would have been allowed to continue to enjoy her title of Marquess of Pembroke and the income from the lands he had granted her with that title, enabling her to enjoy a dignified and comfortable retirement in England or, if she preferred, abroad. She had always had a fondness for France and King Francis was sure to make her welcome in his country and court._

_But barrenness was not her only crime. Anne's crimes were crimes that could not be ignored._

_She was a traitor and for traitors there was only one fitting punishment._

_He wasn't going to listen to any more! He pushed roughly past her, not caring if he knocked her to the ground as he stormed away from her, ignoring the desperation in her voice as she called out to him, over and over._

_"Henry! Your Majesty! Your Majesty, I beseech you!"_

_He didn't look back._

He had to get away from the palace, away from the courtiers who were treading around him so warily, so uncertain of his temper after everything that had happened, as though they were afraid that he might turn on them any minute. It was no surprise that he was finding it difficult to sign Anne's death warrant here, in the palace which had been their home once they were married and where he had courted her for years before that, where he had honoured her and feted her as a Queen long before the title became hers.

There were too many memories here, memories that he needed to get away from, at least for a while.

He needed Jane.

After a few hours in her soothing, cleansing presence, he would be able to free himself of the last vestiges of Anne's hold over him, then he could come back and he would be able to sign.

* * *

Usually, when Henry went out riding, he was accompanied by grooms to tend him and soldiers to guard him on his journey, with one man riding a little ahead of the party bearing the royal standard, so that everybody would know that the King approached and that they should make way for him, clearing the roads so that his journey would not be delayed by even a moment. If he was travelling to pay a visit to one of his lords, regardless of whether he intended to be there only for a few hours or if he was on progress and intended to stay longer, then a messenger would usually be sent on ahead, warning the of his arrival so that his host would be able to make preparations to receive him in the style that his royal dignity demanded, ensuring that none of his lords would be caught unawares and left to face the embarrassment of being inadequately prepared for a royal visit.

Today, however, he wasn't riding as a King.

Today, he was merely a lover, a suitor seeking the hand of a maiden and that was how he would travel to Wolf Hall, accompanied by only two grooms, plainly dressed, without the royal standard and without sending a messenger ahead. He would arrive unannounced, surprising his Jane, who would surely not be expecting him and who was sure to be pleased and honoured that he would drop everything to make the journey to her family's home to see her, flattered to know that he cared so much about her that he would be willing to leave behind all the cares of ruling England so that he might spend a few hours in her company.

It would be sweet and refreshing to see her unfeigned joy at his presence, and the becoming shyness with which she greeted his attentions, as befitted a modest young lady of gentle birth. When he was with Jane, he always felt as though she was amazed that he should ever consider looking at her, as though she truly was not aware of her charms. Although Jane was a beautiful woman, pale and golden where Anne was dark and enigmatic, Henry felt that her other qualities, her sweet, submissive nature and her maidenly modesty, were what he loved most about her.

He deeply regretted the fact that he could not have her with him at court, at least for the time being, and he badly missed her company but he knew that their separation was unavoidable, the best thing for all concerned. While he knew that his love for Jane had nothing to do with what was happening with Anne now, he had to acknowledge that there were many who would believe otherwise if he was seen with Jane while the investigation and the trials were in progress – as though they could really think that, if he had never met Jane, he would be prepared to turn a blind eye to everything he had learned about Anne's crimes and allow her to continue to enjoy the honours and privileges of a Queen, while she crammed a cuckold's horns on his head! – and he knew that he had to make sure that Jane's reputation would not be tainted by what was happening, even if that meant that he had to be deprived of her company.

Jane had not spoken a word of protest when he sent her away, or even asked him to tell her why he should wish for her to leave, and so soon after he had beseeched her to allow him to serve her and worship her. She had obeyed him without a question or a murmur, an excellent quality in a wife and one that made her a complete contrast both to Katherine, who had refused to acknowledge the invalidity of their marriage and insisted on denying him justice out of stubborn pride, and to Anne, who seemed to barely understand the meaning of the word 'obedience', let alone be able to exercise any degree of that quality.

It would be a very pleasant change to have a lady like her for his wife.

As he rode to Wolf Hall, he felt as though he was trying to outrun the ghosts of his past, trying not to draw parallels between this ride and one he had made years ago, to Hever Castle, to visit another lady, a girl who had captivated his attention so utterly that he felt as though he would go mad if he could not possess her. He had had other women before, but none of them had made him feel the way she did. She held him off at first, claiming that she could not become his mistress as she had already vowed to preserve her maidenhead for her future husband, whoever he might be, but even when she yielded, even when he held her in his arms, knowing that she was willing and that he could take her if he wanted to, something had stopped him, something had prompted him to go further, to ask her to be his wife rather than his official mistress, and then to pledge to honour her maidenhead until the day of their marriage.

What power had Anne had over him that had prompted him to take such a step, especially when he knew how scandalized people would be to learn that he intended to replace Katherine, a Princess of Spain, with Anne, the daughter of a viscount; was it the ordinary power that a beautiful, captivating woman had over a man, or was there more to it, something unnatural?

Why could he not stop thinking about Anne, even now that he was on his way to see Jane – the woman he truly loved?

Would he ever be free of her?

He spurred his horse onwards, urging it into a gallop, trying to both put as much distance as possible between him and Anne and to bring himself closer and closer to Jane with every stride.

He should have brought her a gift.

He was not coming to Wolf Hall as the King of England, he was coming as a suitor for Jane's hand and a suitor should bring a token of his love when he came to court a lady... but then, Jane had never been greedy for his gifts. She had declined the purse of sovereigns he sent her as soon as Brandon had passed them into her hand, once he explained the origins of the gift, and she behaved with becoming modesty, not wishing to compromise her honour by accepting such a gift from any man, even the King, when she was an unmarried maiden. The locket he gave her was a simple thing, and it had touched him deeply when she promised to wear it always, to know that she valued it for the fact that it held his portrait, and not because of its material value. He doubted whether Jane would have noticed or cared if the locket was made of gold, silver or of some base metal. All she had looked at was his image at its centre and it was for that that she would cherish it.

Anne sent him a locket once. Her first gift to him was a silver locket with her initials on the outside and a tiny portrait of her inside it... as soon as this thing with Anne was over, he would have the locket melted down, and every portrait of Anne would be destroyed.

When he married Jane and brought her to live at court as his Queen, he would not have Anne's image staring down at them, refusing to leave them in peace, to allow them to bury the ghosts of the past and move on.

Once this was over, he never wanted to hear Anne's name spoken again.

As he rode, a clump of wildflowers growing in a hedgerow caught his eye and he dismounted, waving for the grooms to remain where they were and refusing their offers of assistance as he knelt down to gather the prettiest blooms, thinking that a nosegay gathered with his own hands would be a fitting gift from a suitor to his intended bride. Once the flowers were gathered, he mounted his horse again to continue on his journey, imagining that it would not be long now before he would be able to return to court in Jane's company.

The thought of being able to bring Jane to court as his wife, to be able to give England a true Queen at last, brought a smile to his face. She would be a Queen that the whole country would be proud to own, unlike Anne, the Queen he had had to force on the people, threatening their lives if they refused to accept her as he wished them to... even killing good men like More for her sake.

With Jane sitting next to him on the throne, the Emperor would be happy to make peace with him, happy to know that the woman who had taken his aunt's place on the throne was no more. As long as Anne bore the title of Queen and consort, the Emperor would never have been happy or at his ease with an alliance with England, an alliance that would necessitate his acknowledgement of Anne but now that Anne was no longer an issue, he would be pleased to accept Queen Jane.

With Anne gone and Jane on the throne, he was sure that even Mary would quickly become reconciled to the way things were now, especially since Jane was so sweet and so kind and would undoubtedly wish to do all in her power to make her stepdaughter feel welcome at court. As long as Anne was Queen, Mary would never have been willing to repudiate her mother, acknowledge herself to be a bastard and return to the court where her enemy reigned and, although Anne was good at making a show of trying to reconcile with her stepdaughter – so convincing a show that Henry himself had been fooled by it, praising Anne for the fact that she had made the effort and blaming Mary for her refusal to yield, turning against his daughter for failing to have the sense or the courtesy to accept her stepmother's overtures – he was sure that this was the last thing she had truly wanted.

When she offered to reconcile Mary to him in exchange for her acknowledgement of Anne as Queen, she knew that the offer was one that Mary would not be willing or able to accept but she still taunted her with the prospect of a return to court, secure in the knowledge that she would never be called upon to fulfil her end of the bargain, either in terms of bringing Mary to court or encouraging Henry to think kindly of his daughter once more. She had not wanted to encourage his love for his daughter and was content to see Mary out of his good graces so that his affections could be directed towards Elizabeth instead.

Anne had always wanted to see Elizabeth honoured, to make it plain that she was the only legitimate princess of England and the heir to the throne, never breathing a word of protest when he decided to make Mary one of their daughter's attendants, although she must have known that, although the position would be an honoured one for the daughter of a knight or a lord, it would be extremely humiliating for a girl who had been raised to believe that she was a princess and who had been honoured as such for the first fourteen years of her life to be made to take on the role of a servant.

Anne was so concerned with Elizabeth's marriage, despite the fact that their daughter was a child of not yet three years, but she had never even thought to concern herself about Mary's betrothal, even though Mary had been of marriageable age for several years and even though, since Katherine's death, she stood in a mother's place to Mary and should care for her as such, taking an interest in her future. She never suggested any candidates or even encouraged him to bring his elder daughter to court, where she might meet eligible noblemen or ambassadors who would report back on the comely girl of marriageable age and royal blood, even if she was a bastard, to Kings and princes seeking suitable brides for themselves and their sons.

He was sure that Jane wouldn't be like that. Even after they had children of their own, she would not forget about her stepdaughters and would continue to be concerned with their interests.

Mary was an obstinate girl, deeply loyal to her mother and she would never be prepared to buy her way back to court, or even back into her father's good graces, by allowing Anne a fresh triumph but it would be a very different matter once Jane was Queen, and once Mary no longer had to see Anne's child honoured as a princess while she was named a bastard. Once the marriage was annulled, once Princess Elizabeth became Lady Elizabeth, disbarred from the succession as the bastard daughter of a whore and an adulteress, it would be easier for Mary to swallow her pride and accept the overtures that her new stepmother would undoubtedly make to her.

When Jane was Queen, she would be able to help bring his daughter back to him.

As he rode, he could picture Wolf Hall in his mind's eye, a pleasant country manor, simple compared to what Henry was accustomed to but still a warm, homely place, the kind of place where he could easily picture his Jane growing up, learning from her mother the things that a girl of her class needed to know, so that she would one day be able to run her own household, but without being ruined by an excess of education, as Anne was. It had been a long time since he had felt as comfortable at Whitehall as he had the night he and Brandon had dined with Sir John, spending long hours sharing flagons of his best wine and reminiscing over days long gone, when the three of them rode against the French. It was so late by the time they were finished that there could be no question of them returning to court and Henry was pleased to accept his host's gracious invitation to spend the night.

Perhaps Jane would be able to bring some of the warmth of Wolf Hall with her when she came back to court, turning the palace into a true home for them.

The days were becoming longer now but even so, it was evening when Wolf Hall came into view and he spurred his horse forward, leaving his grooms to follow at a discreet distance. He had barely crossed into the courtyard when he leapt lightly from his horse's back, passing the reigns into the hand of the servant who appeared to greet and tend them and hurrying to the door.

As a rule, the King entered by the main entrance, the one leading into the main Hall, where Sir John and his family would be waiting to greet him with all due formality and deference but that was not what Henry wanted today so, ignoring the faintly horrified expression on the face of the servant who opened the side door to admit him and firmly declining the man's half-desperate offers to go ahead of him and let Sir John know of his arrival, Henry pushed past him, making his way through the narrow corridor leading away from the kitchens, the pantry, the stillroom and the laundry, the part of Wolf Hall that was the servants' domain, to the larger, more comfortable rooms where the Seymour family lived and received their guests.

A couple of the servants spotted him as he made his way through the manor, recognizing him from his recent visit and stopping dead in their tracks when they saw him, bowing low.

He could almost read their thoughts, see the panic in their eyes as they wondered whether or not their master was aware of the fact that the King of England was under his roof at this very moment, unattended, but Henry waved aside their hasty offers to find Sir John for him, hushing them with a finger to his lips and sternly cautioning them not to breathe a word about his visit to anybody.

The nosegay he carried had wilted slightly since he gathered the flowers but it was still pretty, giving off a light, delicate fragrance.

When he decided that he would pay a surprise romantic visit, without ceremony and without sending any message of warning ahead, it had seemed like a good idea at the time, one that would please and honour his Jane, but now that he was actually at Wolf Hall, Henry realized that he had neglected to consider one vital, practical issue – how was he to find Jane without asking a servant and without alerting her to his presence?

For all he knew, she might be spending the night away from home, and she was so sweet and loving that he could imagine her having many friends who would be only too thrilled to make her their guest for the night now that she was back from court, eager to spend as much time with her as they possibly could before the time came for her return, this time to make Whitehall her permanent home. Perhaps he had come all this way for nothing... no, not nothing, as he would still be able to speak with Sir John, his old friend, and with his friend's two sons, who were fine young men but it would still be disappointing to learn that after his journey, Jane was not there.

Although his pride shrank from the idea of finding a servant and asking for his assistance in locating the Seymours, questioning him to find out whether or not Jane was there in the first place, Henry was almost ready to do that when he heard the sound of voices coming from behind a heavy wooden door, the door of Sir John's study, if he remembered correctly.

He could hear Jane speaking and a slow smile began to spread across his face at the sound of his beloved's voice... only to begin to fade when he heard Sir John respond.

"I am so proud of you, my dearest," even through the heavy door, Henry could easily make out the other man's words, together with the tone of fatherly pride infusing his tone. "I always knew that with your beauty and with your virtues, you were sure to do well, and that it would be easy enough for me to make a fine match for you, even without a large dowry to tempt a man to the altar but never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined this! It won't be long now before I see my Janey as the new Queen of England!"

It was natural enough that he would be proud of her, Henry told himself firmly – he would have been proud to have a daughter like Jane – and it was not surprising that Sir John would be able to predict that he would soon see his daughter sitting on the throne as the King's dearest wife and consort; Henry might not have indicated his intentions towards Jane yet, at least not openly as that would not be seemly as long as Anne lived and called herself his wife and Queen, but only a fool would have missed the fact that he favoured Jane and that he looked for more from her than that she should simply become his next mistress, something he told himself that he would never have agreed to, even if she was willing he would not have dishonoured her like that, and Sir John was no fool.

"I never dreamed that this could be possible!" Jane said, slightly breathless with awe, her words bringing the smile back to Henry's lips as he listened, pleased by the modesty of his sweetheart and by the fact that she, unlike Anne, had never been ambitious for her own advancement or even that of her family. She had never so much as dropped a hint that he might do something for her father or her brothers, taking advantage of the fact that the King of England loved her and would do anything to please her. He was certain that she would have loved him just as much if he had been a humble stable hand, able to offer her neither title or wealth. "When you told me that I might be Queen, after the King asked to serve me – I didn't dare to believe that you might be right!"

What? Henry was certain that he must have misheard her, telling himself that Jane was merely excited by everything that had happened over the past couple of weeks and that she was so overawed by the prospect of becoming his wife that she spoke wildly.

"I must confess that I was not sure of it myself, not at first," Sir John said jovially. Henry could imagine him patting his daughter's hand, or perhaps brushing a kiss against her hair or cheek. "It was no surprise to me that the King would take a fancy to you, my dear, but even though there were many people who wished to see Queen Anne removed and even though the King himself was tiring of her, she could not be discounted, not yet, particularly when she was with child. It's a mercy that the baby was lost, or that might have been an end to all of our hopes." He added, his tone far colder than usual.

Despite the fact that it was true that he and Anne had been having their problems and that he no longer loved her as he once did, Henry was still displeased to hear one of his subjects, even one that he would have called a friend, speaking of it so openly. His marriage was a private matter and if it was in difficulty, that was nobody's concern but his own. What truly made him angry, however, was the way in which Sir John spoke of Anne's miscarriage, the callousness in his tone as he referred to Henry's lost son, rejoicing that the baby was lost because it meant that he would not be able to pose a threat to his ambitions for his own family.

He longed to hear Jane object to his father's words, to declare that she would prefer that she never had any hope of sitting on the throne if it meant that the King could have the living son and heir he needed, even if the birth of a son to Anne would mean the death of any hope she might cherish of replacing her. He tried to tell himself that it was unfair to expect a good, dutiful and obedient daughter to contradict her father like that, to force himself to believe that he would be displeased to hear Jane arguing with Sir John if she did try to contradict him, but he couldn't quite convince himself that this was the reason why Jane remained silent.

"It is a mercy that Master Cromwell and the Queen fell out, and that he no longer wished to tie himself to her interests." A third speaker, whom Henry recognized as Edward Seymour, spoke up in calm, measured tones, almost devoid of emotion. "As long as he was on her side, it is certain that he would have found some way to secure her position and her power and to encourage the King to think favourably of her once more. Once Anne lost his support, it was only a matter of time before she fell."

"I don't understand." Jane said, unknowingly echoing Henry's own thoughts. "Queen Anne was condemned for adultery, brother, for treason. Surely even Master Cromwell's friendship would be of no help to her there; she would still have had to pay the price for her crimes. Master Cromwell had nothing to do with them, after all."

The silence that followed was long and awkward, heavy with meaning and with unspoken words and as he listened, eager to hear how Edward or Sir John would respond to this, Henry could feel a knot forming in his stomach, as heavy as a lead ball.

It was true that Anne and Cromwell, who had once gotten along quite well and whom he would once have described as allies, had fallen out in recent months. He was aware of the fact that they had had disagreements over Cromwell's intentions for the monasteries but he had taken very little notice of that; Anne was only a woman after all, and even if she was more intelligent and far better educated than most of her sex, she still couldn't be expected to have the same grasp on political matters and affairs of state that a man would. It was rumoured that Anne had been particularly displeased by the fact that Cromwell had offered to give his rooms to the Seymour family, and that she had even made threats against him – absurd of her, if that was true, as she must have known that she was in no position to be able to make threats against anybody who had Henry's favour – but was Edward Seymour right that their falling out had led to Anne's fall from grace?

As Jane had said, if Anne was guilty of adultery and treason, then regardless of whether or not she had Cromwell's backing, it was only a matter of time before she fell. If their falling out had led to Anne's fall from grace… Henry didn't want to follow that thought through to its logical conclusion but he couldn't keep himself from doing so.

Part of him – even most of him – wanted to find one of the servants, ask him to let the Seymours know that he was here and to proceed with this visit as planned, ignoring everything that he had heard but he couldn't bring himself to do it.

Anne's death warrant was still sitting on his desk at Whitehall, awaiting the signature that would seal her fate.

If he was going to sign it, then he couldn't afford to have any doubts.

The nosegay slipped from his fingers and he made no attempt to retrieve it, leaving the flowers scattered on the wooden floor as he walked away, determined to find answers.


	2. Chapter 2

**_16th May 1536_ **

Although Henry was generally an early riser, one who enjoyed getting up shortly after dawn so that he could eat a quick breakfast and then go out for an early ride with a few favoured companions before he had to return and direct his attention to the affairs of state that would be awaiting him when he got back, he was rarely awake this early in the day, when the sky was still dark and before most of the inhabitants of the court, including the grooms of the Privy Chamber who attended him, were awake but the early hour was not the only novelty, his solitude was also a new experience for him.

As King, he was to be attended at all times. Unless he was sharing a bed with his wife, one of the grooms of his Privy Chamber slept on a pallet next to his bed for the night, armed with a dagger and ready to spring into action to defend him if any person who meant him harm entered the room, a tradition dating back to an earlier time, when Kings could not always be certain that they could sleep safely in their own beds, and in the morning, that groom was responsible for waking and summoning his other attendants so that they could tend to his needs while he washed, dressed and broke his fast, with his routine punctuated by rituals that had developed over hundreds of years to ensure that those who tended to the King's personal needs were aware of the honour of their position, even though their tasks might be humble.

It was very rare that he was allowed to be alone; if he slept in his own quarters, then he would have his grooms surrounding him as soon as he was out of bed but if he passed the night in Anne's bed, then her ladies-in-waiting would hurry to tend to their needs when they awoke.

He hadn't shared Anne's bed since the night when he came to her rooms to find an impromptu revel in progress, with those participating falling silent as soon as he entered, like children who had been caught out at some mischief, something that had made him feel as though they saw him as an ogre, as a strict parent who had come to punish them for their behaviour, and he was irritated that they should be able to make him feel like that, almost as though he was in the wrong for having interrupted them. He was not like his father had been, a stern, joyless man who would undoubtedly have issued a stern rebuke had he come across the young people of his court taking part in their own revels, revels that he would have considered to be unseemly, away from the rest of the court and without being properly chaperoned. He was still young, should still have been at the heart of such a party, instead of being the one whose mere presence was enough to cast a dark shadow over the gaiety, silencing them all so abruptly and leaving them ill at ease.

He resented them for their ability to make him feel that way and he was determined to show them that if they had dismissed him, excluding him from their young, vital circle and assuming that he was incapable of enjoying himself as they were, then they were very much mistaken.

That night, he and Anne danced the volta together, after which he had swept her into his arms, barking an order that everybody else present should clear the room immediately, after which he carried Anne, slightly tipsy and giggly after the wine she had drunk, through to her bedchamber to be with her once more.

Although he would never have admitted it aloud, even to Brandon, his closest friend, their lovemaking had frightened him a little that night. It was as though they were both possessed, their need so intense that they were driven to tear the clothes from each other rather than waste precious seconds taking them off properly.

He had never needed anybody as desperately as he did Anne at that moment.

Earlier that evening, he had had no intention of lying with her and was already considering when he and Brandon would next go out on one of their hunting trips, the trips he used as a cover for when he felt the need to find a pretty, willing woman to be with... not that Anne had ever had the sense to take advantage of his discretion and of the opportunity that it afforded her to shut her eyes and maintain some dignity by pretending that she was unaware of the fact that he had other women, which would mean that nobody else at court would ever dream of mentioning the matter to her... but when he saw her that night, being spun around in the arms of one of his courtiers as they danced, when he saw her so happy among her own circle of friends, away from the rigid formality of the rest of the court, and more alive than she had been in his presence lately, he had had to possess her, utterly, to reassure himself that she was still his.

And she was, just as he was hers, at least for a while, for a few precious moments when the rest of the court, the rest of the country and the rest of the world, faded away leaving only them.

They might have been the only two people still alive in the world.

She frightened him too that night, after they were finished and they lay side by side, panting after their exertion.

It wasn't that Anne told him that she wanted to conceive again, to conceive a son; there were few, if any, things that Henry wanted more than for her to be able to come to him and tell him that their son was growing in her womb and that, with God's grace, he could expect a Prince of Wales within nine months, the son he needed to keep England safe, to ensure the survival of his dynasty and the continuation of his father's work. He did not fault Anne for wishing for that and was pleased to see that, whatever her shortcomings as a Queen, at least she understood that it was her duty to give him a strong male heir but he was disturbed by the wildness in her eyes as she continued, the desperate, almost despairing expression on her face as she spoke.

_"But I can't."_

_"Why?" He turned to look at her then, wondering why she should be so sure of that, given that it was not yet two years since Elizabeth's birth. Her miscarriage the previous year was a blow for both of them, he would be lying if he tried to deny that, or to claim that he was not angry and disappointed over Anne's failure, but such tragedies were far from unheard of. Other women lost babies and, in many cases, they were still able to go on to bear strong sons afterwards, as though nothing amiss had ever happened. For a moment, he wondered whether his wife was about to confess to him that a physician or midwife had told her that she had suffered some damage, either when Elizabeth was born or when she lost their second child, and that she could not hope to conceive and bear a son, wondering whether he should comfort her if that was the case or whether he should be angry with her, but the next words from her lips horrified him._

_"As long as they're alive, I can't conceive a son." Her tone was dead, almost dreamy as she spoke, as though her words were not truly meant for his ears, as though it was not a thought that she had ever intended to give voice to, at least not in his hearing, but he could tell that it was a thought that she had had before, perhaps many times._

_He pulled away from her a little, wanting to be able to look her in the eye and discern her reaction, wondering how she had come up with that idea, wondering if she believed that she had been cursed to prevent her from bearing him a son. God knew that she had many enemies, people who were undoubtedly praying that Anne would never be able to bear a living son. "What are you saying?"_

_Anne kissed him before answering, still in the same half-dead tone. "Katherine and her daughter."_

_He pushed her away from him then, unable to believe his ears, half-hoping that he had only imagined that she had spoken those words, made such a suggestion. She couldn't be serious! "Are you saying that you want me to kill them?" He asked, hoping that she would deny it, that she would assure him that this was not the case, that she was not asking that he should have a Princess of Spain, a good, if obstinate, woman with whom he had lived for many years, killed, that she was not asking him to have his own daughter, his first living child, killed._

_He badly wanted to believe that she would never ask that of him._

_Anne didn't answer and when he looked into her eyes, he wondered if she had understood, or even heard his question. There was a touch of madness in her eyes as she lay on top of him, trailing kisses down his body, as though something in her mind had broken, as though the woman he loved had died and left behind somebody capable of asking a man to sacrifice the life of his daughter in order to win himself a son._

Their son was conceived that night.

No! Henry reminded himself forcefully. The boy Anne miscarried could not have been his son. Dr Linacre had said that there were signs of deformity and he was sure that there was no way that he could have sired a damaged infant... almost sure.

He could not deny that the timing of the child's conception matched the date on which he had been with Anne – and that was certainly not a date that he was likely to forget! – nor could he entirely dismiss the possibility that, although he was a strong, healthy and potent man, he could have sired a child who was not as strong or as perfect as he was, just as a beautiful mother and a handsome father could couple and produce children who were plain of feature, or an intelligent man and woman could couple and create a child who was not blessed with his parents' gifts, anymore than he could dismiss the possibility that Anne's shock at his fall or at finding Jane on his lap might have done some damage to the child in her womb, a child who would otherwise have been born sound and whole.

Perhaps Dr Linacre had simply been mistaken when he said that there were signs of deformity; the child had seemed well formed when Henry saw him, tiny of course, far too tiny to live, but perfect, from the delicate features on the face down to the minute fingers of each fragile hand. When he saw him, before he knew about Anne, Henry fancied that if the baby had lived, he would truly have been the living image of him, as Anne had suggested, a true Tudor, and he grieved for the son who had never had a chance to be born, feeling a surge of fury towards Anne for flying into such a passion when she found him with Jane; there was no harm in what he did with Jane but Anne's irrational, unseemly rage at the sight of it had killed their child.

Would the boy have looked like him if he had lived, or would Anne have presented him with a 'son' whose face bore the stamp of Smeaton's fathering, or Norris' or Brereton's?

He wished that he could be certain that the dead child was not his, that he could feel certain that what he said to Brandon about it being impossible for Anne's lost boy to have been his was the truth, but he couldn't keep himself from doubting the fact that there had ever been a possibility that he might have been sired by another man.

He needed to believe that Anne was guilty but he couldn't banish the doubts from his mind.

Edward Seymour had intimated that but for the fact that Anne no longer enjoyed Cromwell's support, she might still enjoy her former position of power, might still occupy a place in his good graces, just as Sir John had suggested that if the baby had lived, Anne would still be Queen.

They did not truly believe Anne to be guilty, their silence when Jane questioned their comments made that clear, but were they right?

If Anne was innocent, then he couldn't sign her death warrant, or those of the men who were accused with her.

If he did, if he allowed them to be killed when they had not truly committed a crime, then he could never expect that God would show him and Jane favour when the time came for them to marry. He would never bless their union with a son if it was a union made possible only by Anne's murder. Any children Jane bore, if she was allowed to conceive any, would be born dead, their lives snatched away in payment for the blood that was spilled to pave the way for their parents' union. They would be accursed, far more so than Henry was with Katherine as he had at least sinned in ignorance with her, and taken steps to rectify the situation when he came to understand the grave sin he had committed.

If Anne was innocent and he allowed her to be executed, there would be no way that he could take it back.

It should have been so easy for him to sign the warrant but something stayed his hand. Even when he picked up the quill, determined to try again and not to be bested by whatever force was keeping him from signing, it felt heavy and awkward in his hand, and it seemed as though the simple act of writing his name would take a Herculean effort on his part.

Was this God's way of speaking to him, telling him that Anne was innocent and keeping him from condemning her unjustly, thereby damning himself, or did his doubts stem from the fact that, despite everything that had happened, all the pain and misery that had stemmed from his need to have Anne as his wife, and despite the fact that he had found a lady that he loved truly, a part of him still cared for Anne, a part of him shrank from the thought of calling for her death, wanting to spare her, no matter what crimes she had committed against him?

Did he _want_ her to be innocent?

Henry tried to remember how he had felt when he was first told of the fact that Anne's behaviour was giving cause for concern, and later when he was told that Smeaton had confessed. He was angry, certainly, and hurt. The knowledge of Anne's betrayal enraged him, the thought that the woman he once loved had made a cuckold out of him wounded and humiliated him but he could not deny that he had felt something else too…

Relief.

He had made up his mind to rid himself of Anne after she miscarried their child, the second such loss in succession and one that she had dared to blame on _him_ , claiming that it would never have happened if she had not found him sitting with Jane. If she had wept, if she had pleaded with him to forgive her for losing their boy, he thought that he might have had some pity for her, comforting her for their shared loss but instead she had turned on him, accusing him.

She looked so pathetic then, her face pale and drawn and her hair damp with sweat, her nightgown hanging loosely about her thin frame as she sat hunched over on the bed, still in pain after her miscarriage, white from the loss of blood, her face etched with fear at the certain knowledge that when she lost her son, she lost one of the last ties binding them together, along with the security of her position as his wife and as Queen of England. When he looked at her, he could barely recognize the beautiful woman who had captivated him for so long, the woman whose beauty he still acknowledged and took pride in even after he no longer loved her as he once had, even when he began to find the company of mistresses and even whores more congenial than her own, knowing that at least she still looked lovely and regal in public, even if her behaviour was not what he expected of his Queen.

Anne would never be ugly but there was something unbearably ordinary about her that night and, as he looked at her, he could imagine what his courtiers would be whispering of him if she appeared on his arm, looking like that, and what visiting ambassadors would report back to their masters in their dispatches. They would all laugh at him behind his back, mocking him, amused by the thought that the King of England had practically turned his country upside down, risking war against Spain and even excommunication, all so that he could marry a woman who was not the most beautiful in the world, a woman who was born a simple knight's daughter, a woman who refused to behave with the dignity of a Queen and who insisted on staging unseemly scenes over his infidelities, refusing to accept that it was King's right to take his pleasures whenever and with whoever he wished, a woman who had borne him only a single living daughter and who seemed to be incapable of bearing a son.

That night, thoughts of the lengths he had gone to in order to win Anne's love and her hand in marriage made him feel deeply embarrassed, now that all of his glorious dreams of what it would be like when they were finally able to be together had come to nothing.

He must have been bewitched to be willing to go to such extraordinary lengths, for just another woman!

Cromwell was sympathetic but practical when he explained that, under the circumstances, it would not be easy to annul his marriage to Anne, not unless he was prepared to take the drastic step of going back on what he had said about his marriage to Katherine being invalid, acknowledging the authority of the Bishop of Rome over that of the Supreme Head of the Church of England and accepting the former's verdict on the Great Matter, something that would automatically invalidate his marriage with Anne, as it had been made during Katherine's lifetime, bastardising little Elizabeth and restoring Mary, his proud and stubborn elder daughter, as a princess. It would solve the problem of Anne, freeing him to marry Jane but it was something that Henry knew he could never do. After everything that had happened, he couldn't bear the thought of going crawling back to Rome like a child repenting of his previous naughtiness.

Witchcraft was a claim that was likely to be greeted with ridicule by the vast majority of the people, who scorned such superstitions, and it was an allegation that was very difficult to prove. It was an invisible craft, and aside from the Devil, only the witch herself could ever truly know of her guilt for a fact. Anne was certainly clever enough to know not to leave any evidence of dark practices lying around where it might be found and used against her, and to ensure that any forbidden activities took place in secret, far away from the eyes of potential witnesses. If he tried to claim that she bewitched him, the people would laugh at him.

Under other circumstances, the fact that Anne's sister had once been his lover would have been enough for him to be able to annul their marriage, citing a close and forbidden degree of affinity, but Cromwell's expression was grave as he warned against that course of action, reluctantly pointing out that it was one that was very likely to draw ridicule on Henry's own head.

With Katherine, he had been led to believe that he marriage to Arthur had been unconsummated and that the pope's dispensation was enough to render their marriage, which would otherwise have been a forbidden one, honest. It was a mistake on his part but it was an honest mistake, made in good faith after he had been misled. He was young then, not much more than a boy, and could not be faulted if those advising him had given him bad counsel, even if he had been all too eager to accept their verdict as he wished with all his heart to be able to marry the beautiful Spanish princess who was once his elder brother's bride. With Anne, he could not claim that he was unaware of the fact that he was once her sister's lover, nor could he claim to be ignorant of the fact that his affinity to Anne through Mary Boleyn was a barrier to marriage; after all, he had sought a dispensation from the Bishop of Rome to allow them to be together. As he had married Anne, despite knowing of their affinity, he would look foolish – Cromwell may not have used the word but Henry was certain that the other man was thinking it – if he tried to cite that same affinity as grounds for why their marriage should now be considered invalid.

Unlike most men of his station, Anne's father had not arranged a marriage for his younger daughter before she reached womanhood – Henry thought that he would have made Thomas Boleyn a duke if he could furnish proof of a betrothal, however tentative, that was agreed upon during Anne's infancy, one that would invalidate his marriage to her without reflecting badly on him – so he could not claim pre-contract.

Cromwell's lips curved in a wry half-smile as he observed that they might have done too thorough a job securing Anne's position as Queen under English law and under the canon law of the Church of England for her to be easily removed from that place but, when Henry insisted that he would see it done, he promised to find a way, asking only that until a way was found, Henry should not give Anne, her family or those who supported her any reason to believe that her position was in jeopardy, for fear that they might find a way to thwart their efforts if they knew of them. It was essential that Anne be made to believe that she was forgiven for her miscarriage and that Henry did all he could to deflect any suspicion that he might be considering the idea of discarding her, especially since it would do Jane's reputation no good if she was pointed to as the reason for the break-up of the royal marriage. There was little that he would not have done if it meant protecting Jane.

Henry needed to play his part, to appear in public with Anne on his arm, to ensure that he treated her cordially and courteously when others were present and that he continued to publicly uphold her position as his Queen – he could imagine what an unpleasant shock it had been for Chapuys, who had never been able to conceal either his dislike of Anne or his ardent support of Katherine and Mary, to be told, in no uncertain terms, that any alliance between England and Spain would be conditional on the Emperor's written acceptance of Anne as Queen of England! – at least long enough for Cromwell to find a solution to the problem she posed.

Had this been his solution?

Had Cromwell seen the answer to their dilemma when Brandon confided in Henry that there were rumours circulating throughout the court about Anne's behaviour, hinting that her relationships with some of the male courtiers she entertained in her rooms were cause for concern? He must have known that if proof could be found that she had committed adultery, a treasonable offence in her case, then nobody would be able to condemn Henry for ordering her execution, just as he would have known that while Anne might have been able to pose a threat to the validity of Henry's next marriage during her lifetime, even if their union was annulled, just as Katherine had cast a shadow over his marriage to Anne as long as she was alive, once both of the women who had called themselves his wives were safely dead, the validity of his third marriage, together with the legitimacy of the children born of that marriage, would be undeniable.

Much as he would have liked to believe that the peers sitting in judgement when Anne was tried would never have condemned her for a crime that they believed she had not committed, not even to win his favour, Henry couldn't make himself dismiss that possibility. He knew well that the priority of the twenty-six noblemen who acted as judges would have been to please him, even if pleasing him meant that they had to convict an innocent woman of capital crimes, sentencing her to a traitor's death. If they believed that this what he wanted, they would be afraid to do otherwise, for fear that they too might find themselves accused with her.

He had known that this would be the case, known that if they believed that he would want them to return a guilty verdict, they would do so. When the Duke of Buckingham was put on trial for treason, all he had had to do to ensure that the peers trying him came to the verdict he wanted, rather than the one Wolsey was advocating and with which Henry strongly disagreed, was to send Brandon to Norfolk to drop heavy hints about the desired outcome of Buckingham's trial, accompanied by thinly veiled threats about what might happen if he failed to deliver.

He might not have set out to send a similar message to the peers sitting in judgement on Anne's case but if it was known that he was tiring of Anne and that he would not be displeased to be given such a perfect excuse to rid himself of her, he could not dismiss the possibility that they would have thought to please him by providing him with that excuse, one that no man in England could condemn him for taking, even without his requesting it of them.

Did they believe that Anne was innocent, with some of them voting her guilty with great reluctance, for fear that they would incur their King's anger if they refused to do so, and with those who willingly voted for her guilt doing so out of spite and a desire to be rid of her, even if they thought that she was innocent of the crimes of which she had been accused?

It sounded plausible, far too plausible for his liking.

It kept coming back to what he had overheard at Wolf Hall, the few sentences that had shaken his faith in Anne's conviction. Edward Seymour plainly believed that but for the fact that she had lost Cromwell's support, Anne would not have lost her place as Queen, and Sir John had not contradicted him. They believed that Anne was innocent, he knew that, but were they right?

Could Anne be innocent?

He needed to know, and if Edward Seymour was right about Cromwell's involvement, then he couldn't trust that his Chancellor and former secretary wouldn't try to fob him off with a pat excuse, promising that the investigation was thorough and the trial irreproachably fair. If Cromwell lied, then even if Henry was reassured by what he heard, God would not be fooled and He would still punish him and Jane for Anne's death.

He couldn't trust Cromwell.

If he wanted answers, then he needed to look for them himself.

* * *

Cranmer's nervousness was apparent as soon as Henry entered his chambers. The Archbishop of Cantebury, who had been an obscure cleric less than a decade previously and who owed his rise to the fact that he was able to provide Henry with invaluable counsel where his Great Matter was concerned, sprang to his feet when Henry entered, bowing deeply but despite the fact that Cranmer kept his head lowered, Henry could see that his eyes were red-rimmed and that his cheeks were tearstained, a clear indication that he had been weeping, probably for some time.

He was fond of Anne and thought highly of her, Henry knew that; he had known her for many years, since he first served as chaplain to her family and it was not surprising that he found the idea of what was to happen to her a distressing one. Much as it irritated Henry to think that anybody could possibly sympathize with Anne and lament her fate under the circumstances, with Cranmer, it was understandable.

"Your Eminence." Henry greeted him in a clipped tone before Cranmer could say a word to welcome him, pacing back and forth in the room for a minute or so before he spoke again, trying to decide what it was that he should say, to find the right words that would get him the answers he needed. "You acted as the Queen's confessor, did you not?" He said at last, meeting the other man's eyes. "I want to… I need to know…"

"But Your Majesty," Cranmer protested before he could finish voicing his request, alarmed by the direction of the conversation and trying to stop it before it could continue down that path. "Whatever Her Majesty might have said to me, she said it in confidence. I cannot break the seal of the confessional, not without her permission!"

"I'm not asking you to." Henry snapped impatiently, irritated. "I want to know how you feel about all of this, Your Eminence. The accusations made about the Queen's behaviour, the trial, all of it. There's no harm in that." He explained, trying to put voice to his thoughts. "Do you believe that the Queen is guilty of the crimes for which she was condemned?"

Cranmer was a clever man, one with a shrewd grasp of theology that allowed him to see solutions that might never have occurred to another cleric, even one who held a high position in the ecclesiastical hierarchy and who professed to be well versed in theological matters, but he was not a good liar by any means. His face was an open book to anybody who looked at him, and he was far from skilled at concealing his feelings. He had been Anne's confessor and, while he could not repeat anything she had told him when she confessed to him and received absolution for the sins she had committed and while even Henry shrank from asking that of him, if Anne had confessed to committing adultery – and she must surely have done so, for fear that she might become ill suddenly and die with such a foul sin on her conscience, damning her soul to Hell for eternity – and Cranmer knew her to be guilty, his face would reveal that, even if his tongue did not.

"I… I…" Cranmer stammered nervously as he tried to decide what he should say, his need to speak the truth in conflict with his fear of offending his master if he said something that he did not wish to hear. How could he tell the King of England that he did not believe in his justice, at least in this particular case? "I cannot believe that Your Majesty would have proceeded against her if you did not believe her to be culpable." He blurted at last, inwardly praying that Henry would be satisfied with his response and that he would not quiz him any further. If he did, Cranmer was terrified that he would say something that would rouse the King's anger against him and draw his wrath down on his own head, which had been feeling a little looser on his shoulders since Anne, his patroness, had fallen from grace.

"That's not what I asked you." Henry said sharply, his suspicions roused by Cranmer's choice of words, the fact that he had spoken of _him_ and not of _Anne_.

"No, Your Majesty." Cranmer agreed, not daring to meet his eyes, afraid of what he might see if he did.

"I'm not asking you whether you believe that I believe that the Queen is guilty," Henry said slowly, doing his best to suppress his rising impatience with the nervous archbishop standing in front of him. "I want to know whether or not you believe that she is guilty."

"I…" Cranmer floundered, the truth and his desire to see justice for Anne demanding one answer, while his fear of Henry dictated another.

"Yes or no, Your Eminence." Henry told him bluntly, guessing what it was that the other man wanted to say and that he was afraid to say it. He didn't want to hear it but he needed to. He forced himself to give Cranmer a small, encouraging smile, to show the frightened archbishop that it was alright for him to speak freely, even if he thought that Henry didn't want to hear what he had to say. "It's that simple."

Drumming up his courage, Cranmer uttered the one word he was longing to say: "No."

Henry had set foot in the Tower of London only twice before, the first time before his coronation, when he and Katherine had stayed in the royal apartments for a few nights before they were crowned, as tradition demanded, a time he remembered as one of great celebration, with his newfound freedom going to his head like champagne, and then years later, before Anne's coronation, he had not wanted her to have to sleep alone, especially in her delicate condition, and he stayed with her in the royal apartments, which had been refurbished in honour of the occasion.

He had never visited the dungeons or the cells where the prisoners were kept, and he had never had any wish to do so, at least not before now.

Master Kingston was clearly surprised when Henry arrived at the Tower, particularly when he saw that he was accompanied only by one attendant. When Henry told him the purpose of his visit, accompanying the explanation with an order that the executions of the four men scheduled to die tomorrow were to be postponed until further notice, the other man's eyes became impossibly wide but he did not dare to argue, or even to question the reasons for his decision, merely bowing his head in acknowledgement of the order, promising that he would do as Henry commanded, and then leading the way in through the gatehouse, conducting Henry across the courtyard to the wing where the prisoners were being kept.

Anne's window was one of those looking down into the courtyard, Henry knew that much even if he didn't know which window was hers. When he found out about what she had done... what he believed she had done... he wanted to give orders that she should be locked in the dankest, dampest, most foul-smelling dungeon in the Tower and it had taken some persuasion from Cromwell, who believed that it would look ill with the people if she was to be treated like that, particularly before she was actually tried and convicted, before he relented and gave orders that she should be lodged in relatively comfortable accommodations and supplied with attendants, as befitted her rank as Queen.

He kept his head lowered as he followed Master Kingston across the courtyard, half-afraid that Anne might be looking out her window and that she might catch sight of him, that she might even try to call out to him, to plead with him to listen to her protestations of innocence, to remember the love they once shared and have mercy.

He didn't want to see her, not now.

There was only one person that he wanted to see at the moment.

He was revolted when he learned that George Boleyn was suspected of being his sister's lover, the thought of the coupling between siblings making him feel sick. He was surprised when Brereton was named, as he had not believed that his groom was particularly liked or trusted by Anne, or that he cherished any warm feelings towards her. If anything, he would have said that they disliked one another. He was indignant when he heard about Smeaton, his pride stinging at the thought that Anne could have gone from him, the King of England, to the arms of a common musician. However, of all four men named and convicted as Anne's lovers, Norris was the worst for him, the blow that hurt most and for longest.

Henry Norris was a friend of his, and had been since he was a boy.

Of all of the men at court, he would have been one of the few courtiers that Henry would have said that he could trust implicitly. It hurt to learn that somebody he had learned to spar with in his youth, somebody who rode and fought alongside him, could betray him like that.

When Norris asked for his permission to court Madge Shelton, a young woman who had been Henry's mistress for a brief period and one of whom he still thought quite fondly, despite the fact that their affair had been a brief one, Henry had agreed without hesitation, believing his friend to be a good, honest man, one who would be a kind and loving husband to Madge. However, despite the fact that he had Henry's permission, and despite the fact that Anne seemed to encourage the match for her cousin, Norris had taken his time when it came to proposing marriage, spending a great deal of his time in Anne's rooms, ostensibly courting Madge but seeming to be more interested in Anne herself, never missing an opportunity to praise her for her work regarding religious reform and to discuss the subject, in which he had a keen interest, with her.

Henry had heard those rumours but had dismissed them initially, thinking that even if Norris had not been so loyal to him that he would sooner think of flying than engaging in a flirtation with the wife of his friend and sovereign, let alone taking it any further than that, he was one of the last man at court likely to attract Anne's attention. He never imagined that he needed to feel the slightest twinge of alarm over the amount of time that Norris spent in Anne's rooms.

He was dismayed and bitterly angry when he learned from Cromwell that he had been wrong to trust Norris as much as he had, to know that a man that he had called his friend would cuckolded him, that he had been willing to betray him by lying with his wife and, more than that, willing to take the risk that if he made Anne pregnant, his bastard might have one day sat on the throne.

As Master Kingston lead him down a corridor lined with cells on either side, Henry could hear muffled cries of protest from a couple of the inhabitants, who balked at being kept prisoner and who were anxious to learn what their fate was to be. These cells were reserved for prisoners of high birth, whose status protected them from being imprisoned in the dungeons as the commoners were and it was here that all but one of those who had been arrested with Anne were being kept.

In addition to the four men who were convicted of being Anne's partners in adultery, a treasonable offence for which they were scheduled to die, Sir Thomas Wyatt and Anne's father, the Earl of Wiltshire were also arrested and, although no charges had been laid against either man as the investigation had uncovered no evidence against them, Cromwell had recommended that both men should be kept in the Tower, at least for the present, for fear that if they were free, they might have spoken in Anne's defence and rallied people to her cause, a risk they could not afford to take.

The last thing they needed was for the people to support Anne more than they did already.

Henry wrinkled his nose slightly as his nostrils were assaulted with a pungent odour. This part of the Tower might have been scrubbed down on a fairly regular basis but there was still an odour of human waste from the privies, one that made him gag, although he determinedly resisted the wave of nausea that washed over him.

He could only imagine how amusing the prisoners in the Tower would find it if they learned that their King's stomach was so delicate that he could not bear the smell of his own prison, the prison to which so many people, including his own wife, were banished when they displeased him, without retching.

"This is the place, Your Majesty." Master Kingston said respectfully, bowing low as he stopped outside one of the cell doors. At Henry's nod, he banged on the door with his fist, a gesture of respect that the status of the prisoner within demanded, waiting a moment until Norris called a response before he pushed back the heavy bolt securing the door and pushed it open.

"Your Majesty!" Norris sprang to his feet when he saw Henry, making a shallow bow and remaining standing, waiting for permission before he sat down again, something that Henry found absurdly amusing.

If Norris didn't dare to sit in Henry's presence without his permission, would he really have dared to make love to his wife?

"You may leave us, Master Kingston." Henry said firmly, wanting no witnesses to this interview.

When he made the decision to come to the Tower to see Norris, he hadn't known exactly what he wanted to do; whether he wanted to question the other man in the hopes of catching him out in a lie that would prove his guilt, or whether he wanted to beseech him to reassure him that the allegations against him and, by extension, against Anne were false. Did he want to hear that Anne was guilty, or that she was innocent? Did he want to be reassured that he could sign Anne's death warrant with a clear conscience or did he want to be told that he should go straight to her chamber and give orders that she be released at once, taking her away from this terrible place? However, now that he was face to face with Norris, now that he saw how overawed he still was in his presence, he knew what he wanted to say, and he knew that it was not something that he wanted to have anybody else present for.

"Of course, Your Majesty." Master Kingston responded obediently, with another bow. He backed out of the cell, stepping out into the corridor but he hesitated before closing the door, clearly unwilling to close the door, shutting his King into the cell.

"Close the door!" Henry snapped at him, his patience at a low ebb. He wanted answers and he didn't want to wait any longer for them than he had to.

"Yes, Your Majesty. I will be outside, should you need anything." Master Kingston said, closing the door behind him with a firm clang.

"Your Majesty..." Norris began as soon as they were alone, his tone one of desperate hope, like a drowning man who had just caught sight of a branch that he might be able to use to pull himself out of the waters that were ready to claim his life and who was terrified that if he even dared to breathe, a cruel wind might blow that branch out of his reach. "Your Majesty, I swear that I never..."

"Be quiet." Henry told him sharply. If he had wanted to listen to pleading and tearful protestations of innocence, he would have gone to see Anne. "I didn't come here for that."

"Then what did Your Majesty come for?" Norris asked, bewildered.

"You have been sentenced to death." Henry told him bluntly. "I am inclined to be merciful, and to allow you to die by decapitation, instead of the alternative... although I may change my mind." He added, waiting a few moments to give Norris time to digest the threat before he continued. Norris paled slightly at the suggestion that he might be forced to face the terrible death of a commoner but he said nothing, and did not plead to be spared it, for the sake of their previous friendship or for any other reason. "I think that it would be safe to say that you no longer have anything to lose, wouldn't you?" Norris nodded uncertainly, unsure whether or not Henry expected more from him by way of response. "Wouldn't you say that, Sir Henry?" Henry repeated firmly, not satisfied with the other man's mute response. He needed to hear him say it, to know that Norris fully understood what was at stake.

"Yes, Your Majesty." Norris agreed quietly, a flash of pain crossing his face at the thought of his children, who had not been permitted to visit him since his arrest – even if they had been able to secure permission, he would not have allowed them to come. He did not want his family to remember him in this terrible place, or for them to anger the King and bring their own loyalty into doubt by seeming to be too sympathetic with a traitor, even if that traitor was their own father.

"You are a widower, aren't you, Sir Henry?" Henry asked, although he knew perfectly well that this was the case; Norris had told him as much himself when he sought permission to court Madge. "Your children..." He tutted for a moment, in feigned sympathy. "I am sure that your death will be a great loss to them – as will the loss of your estates." As Norris had been attainted for treason, all of his estates were forfeit to the Crown, which meant that his children would have no claim on their father's considerable fortune for their future support. Once Norris was dead, his family would be left destitute unless Henry decided to be generous and merciful towards them and to allow them to inherit a portion of their father's estate – and he certainly wasn't going to be inclined to be generous towards the children of a traitor if their father wasn't prepared to cooperate with him now.

"Yes, Your Majesty." Norris repeated, trying to hide the pain that this thought caused him. As the children of an attainted traitor, his sons and his daughter would be outcasts, unwelcome at court and unable to make their fortune there. As they would also be deprived of their inheritance, their future would be a bleak one, unless one of his more distant relatives was prepared to step in and take charge of them, sponsoring their education and helping them to carve out a future for themselves.

Henry regarded him in silence for a few minutes before speaking again, and when he did, his tone was gentler, almost friendly. "There is an alternative, Sir Henry," he began, forcing himself to smile. "All I want from you is for you to confess your crimes to me. Tell me about when you were the Queen's lover – no, don't say anything yet." He said firmly, seeing from the expression on Norris' face that he was ready to deny the accusation. "Let me finish, then it will be time for you to speak. If you confess your crimes to me, privately, then I am prepared to offer you a full pardon. I don't want to hear anything about the others," he added, just in case Norris shrank from the idea of speaking against any of the other men who were accused, knowing that he would not want to condemn them, no matter what. "You were once my friend, Sir Henry, and I have no doubt that it was the Queen who seduced you, not the other way around – believe me, I know how enticing she can be when she wants to." He added with a wry smile, trying to sound as though he meant that, as though he could truly forgive any man who had been Anne's lover, regardless of their previous friendship. He needed Norris to believe that. "If you confess your crimes to me, privately, then you can walk out of this place, within the hour, as a free man. I won't even confiscate your estates. It will be as though none of this ever happened."

As he made the offer, he tried to suppress the murmuring of his conscience, the nagging voice that whispered that even if Norris had never lain with Anne, even if he had never so much as thought about doing so, the offer was so tempting for a man facing the executioner's axe that it would be far from surprising if he confessed anyway, telling Henry what he wanted to hear in the hope that he would be able to win his freedom by doing so.

If Norris confessed, he would accept that as fact.

If Norris confessed, he would know that Anne was guilty and he would be able to forget that he had entertained any doubt on the matter. He would go back to his study, sign her death warrant; authorizing Master Kingston to arrange her death within a matter of days and that would be an end of the matter. He would be able to move on, to marry his Jane before the month was out, and then they would be happy together.

"No." Norris' voice was soft but determined when he responded.

"What do you mean 'no'?" Henry demanded, unable to believe what he was hearing, that Norris could refuse an offer as generous as the one he had just made to him but there could be no mistaking what the other man had said. "Do you understand what I have just offered..."

"I understand, Your Majesty." Norris said firmly, knowing that he was throwing away his chance at freedom and at regaining his estates but that his conscience would not allow him to do anything else. "I cannot confess to you because I have committed no offence against Your Majesty. I was never the Queen's lover, and I would rather die a thousand deaths than lie and be the ruin of an innocent person – and it is my belief that Her Majesty has never wronged you. The accusations are false, totally false! Surely you must know that Her Majesty would never dream of betraying you like that!"

"Sir Henry..."

"No, Your Majesty." Norris cut him off. "I will not lie to save my skin."

"You're a fool!" Henry remarked bitterly, stalking over to the door and banging on it to let Master Kingston know that he wished to be let out. He was unable to believe what he had just heard, that Norris, or any man could have declined an offer as generous as the one that he had just made him.

He had to be lying... but why would he lie?

If Norris was guilty, then maybe before the trial, he would have thought that he had a chance of convincing his judges of his innocence and of winning his freedom without having to confess to the terrible, treasonous crimes that he had committed against his King, thinking that he was clever and convincing enough to be able to sway them and make them believe that he could never have committed any such offence, allowing him to escape with his life, his property and his good name intact but the trial was over now. Norris had been convicted, like the others, and he knew that there could be no chance of a reprieve now.

He had nothing left to lose and everything to gain if he accepted the generous offer he was being presented with.

If he was guilty, then he would surely admit to something, anything, so long as it satisfied Henry and won him his freedom.

There was only one reason Henry could think of why Norris would refuse such a generous offer, and the thought was far from comfortable.

* * *

"His Majesty did what?" Cromwell couldn't believe his ears. "Are you absolutely certain?"

The man standing in front of his was of a medium height and build, with brown hair and eyes, clad in plain, discreet colours, not a man who would ever stand out in a crowd, which was precisely the reason why Cromwell had recruited to be one of his spies, his eyes and ears at court when he could not be around, and in particular when he could not know what it was that the King was doing.

He nodded his head. "Yes, my lord. His Majesty was away yesterday evening, as you know."

"Yes." Cromwell nodded curtly. He had been told when the King left the palace and guessed that he was going to Wolf Hall, a development that pleased him. if the King was at Wolf Hall, happily distracted by Mistress Seymour, then he would not be taking an especially keen interest in the trials or in the impending executions and he would not have time to rethink what was happening, a state of affairs that Cromwell was quite content to allow to continue.

"He returned early this morning, before dawn, and then he remained in his study for a time before going to the Tower."

"Alone?" Cromwell asked sharply.

"He was accompanied by one other man, my lord, one of the grooms of his chamber. I had it from one of the sentries of the Tower that he went there to speak to Sir Henry Norris."

Cromwell leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers as he considered what he had just been told, feeling a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. There were very few reasons why the King would ever wish to go to the Tower, and fewer still for why he would want to speak to Norris, none of which boded particularly well for him now.

If the King had begun to doubt the verdicts passed down on Anne and the men accused with her, if he began to believe that he had been tricked, that Anne was innocent and that some of his own courtiers, men who worked for him and who had his trust, had conspired to make it appear as though she had committed crimes against him, crimes that would merit her death, his anger would be terrible and Cromwell knew well that he would find himself on the receiving end of it.


	3. Chapter 3

**_16th May 1536_ **

Cromwell's step was quick as he made his way across the courtyard of the Tower, not quite running, as it would have been quite unseemly for the Lord Chancellor of England to be seen to do so and as he did not want anybody who saw him to see how worried he was, but still moving at a faster pace than usual, desperate to get to his master's side as soon as possible.

If the King was doing what he thought he was doing, then he was in trouble. He quickened his step a bit more, hoping against hope that he would be able to reach the King before he spoke to Norris, that he could persuade him that there was no need for him to do so, that he did not need to concern himself with the investigation and that it had been a fair, impartial one, praying that the King's love for Mistress Seymour and his earnest desire to make her his wife and the mother of his sons would make him feel inclined to believe this, as it would mean his freedom.

He felt a surge of anger towards the King as he hastened through the corridors of the Tower, bound for the cells where the men condemned as Anne's lovers were being held, one that he could not entirely suppress, although he managed to keep almost all traces of that emotion from showing on his face, which was marred by only the faintest frown.

Henry had taken no interest in the investigation into Anne's alleged adultery but both Cromwell and Rich were aware of the fact that it would have suited their monarch very well if it could be proved that his wife had committed adultery and treason, crimes that would merit her death, from the moment when they were charged with the task. The both knew that a guilty verdict would spare all concerned the embarrassment and difficulties of an investigation into the validity of the royal marriage, a process that could be prolonged if Anne decided to fight it – perhaps not as long as the late Princess Dowager was able to prolong it when the King sought to dissolve their union, as she did not enjoy the same powerful network of supporters that her predecessor had, but certainly for at least a year or two, perhaps more if she had access to shrewd advice and was able to come up with arguments compelling enough to stall the case, even if she could not defeat it altogether, which would still do damage as she would be delaying the King's remarriage and the birth of a legitimate prince.

Even after the King first heard from Brandon that there was reason to be concerned about the Queen's behaviour, a full-fledged investigation should not have been his first move, and would not have been under other circumstances.

Under other circumstances, he – or any other monarch – would have begun by ordering a discreet watch on his wife's activities, to determine whether or not there truly was reason to be worried about her fidelity before proceeding any further and risking exposing himself to public ridicule as either a cuckold if she was found to be guilty or as a man who was suspicious of a blameless wife if the charges were proven to be groundless. Once a formal investigation began, it would be next to impossible to keep it a secret, even when those who were questioned were warned to keep their mouths shut and when the arrests were made as discreetly as possible but Henry had ordered the investigation straight away, and when he charged Cromwell with the task of carrying it out, the glint of excitement in his eyes, something that was evident despite his attempts to appear sombre, made it plain that he would not be entirely displeased if they could bring him 'proof' of Anne's treachery, providing him with the perfect excuse to be rid of her, once and for all.

Henry claimed that he hoped that Anne would be proved to be innocent of every crime that had been alleged against her, vowing that if that was the case, those who had dared to slander his 'beloved wife' and the mother of his dearest daughter, Princess Elizabeth, the heir to the throne, would be made to pay the price for attempting to cast slurs over her good name and taint her honour and his own with such vile accusations but Cromwell had not believed, even for one moment, that he meant what he said. Although neither of them had said anything, even amongst themselves, Cromwell was certain that Rich, like him, was actually worried that he might find himself the target of the King's anger if they returned with a verdict exonerating her.

If Anne was guilty… if Anne was found to be guilty, then it would solve Henry's problem, as he would be free to marry Mistress Seymour as soon as Anne's head was struck from her body, and it would solve one of Cromwell's problems as well, as without Anne, there would be nothing preventing an alliance with the Emperor, an alliance that he believed to be crucial to England's future and his own. The Emperor would certainly be relieved to know that he would not be obliged to acknowledge the woman who had supplanted his aunt as Queen of England and, without Anne, Cromwell believed that it would be much easier for him to persuade Henry to agree to the Emperor's condition for an alliance, the restoration of the Lady Mary to the succession.

Had Anne not miscarried the son that would have been her saviour, had she still been pregnant now, still in a position of power and confidently expected to bear the long hoped-for male heir within a matter of weeks, then not even the prospect of an Imperial alliance would have been able to tempt the King to agree to restore the Lady Mary to the succession.

Once Anne lost her child and fell from grace, the situation was quite altered.

If Henry was honest with himself, he would admit that he wanted the guilty verdict and he had not concerned himself overmuch with whether or not the investigation and the trial were truly fair and impartial while they were in progress but now that he had had a sudden attack of conscience, he could ruin everything for them. If Anne was to be proclaimed innocent, then Henry would look like a fool and he would be unable to convince himself that he did not.

And he would want somebody to blame.

Cromwell knew his master well. He would not want to accept the responsibility of what had happened so he would need to be able to find a scapegoat, somebody he could lay the blame on, absolving himself, even in his own mind. That scapegoat would be made to pay the price for what had happened, perhaps with their punishment being turned into a public spectacle in order to allow the King to distance himself from what had happened and to pretend that he would never have dreamed of approving of it if he had known what was going on, and Cromwell knew well who that scapegoat could be, unless he could nip this in the bud somehow, quieting the stirrings of the King's conscience and persuading him that all was well.

Despite his haste, despite his hope that he would arrive before Henry had a chance to speak to Norris and to hear things that he should not, when he arrived at Norris' cell, Henry was stepping out of it, a dark scowl on his face. Master Kingston stood in the corridor, but he avoided Cromwell's eyes, hanging back while Henry approached his Lord Chancellor, knowing better than to draw Henry's attention and involve himself in the situation any more than he was already.

"I've been speaking to Norris." Henry announced without preamble, frowning at Cromwell. "And what I have heard has not pleased me."

"Your Majesty, a man in Norris' position will often lie in the hopes of saving himself from a punishment he fears, even if he knows that it is deserved." Cromwell tried to sound soothing and reasonable. "I am sure that he wanted to disturb Your Majesty's peace of mind, or perhaps to take advantage of your previous friendship in the hopes that he could convince you to set him free..."

"I offered him his freedom." Henry said bluntly. "I told him that if he would confess his crimes to me, if he would admit that he was the Queen's lover, I would pardon him and set him free, leaving him with all of his property. He refused. He swore his innocence and declared that he would rather die than accuse the Queen. He believes her to be innocent, Master Cromwell, and he will not lie and condemn her to save his own neck."

Cromwell felt like swearing, although he allowed no hint of what he was feeling to show on his face, carefully keeping his expression neutral. Of all the people for Henry to have gone to first, and with an offer like that, Norris was surely the worst! He was known to be an honest, honourable man – one of the reasons why his conviction had come as a shock to many people at court, who found it difficult to believe that a man with Norris' reputation could have committed treason or betrayed his friend and sovereign by bedding his wife – and, of all the men accused with Anne, he was the least likely to avail of such an offer, no matter how tempted he might be by the prospect of freedom and the restoration of his estate. Cromwell believed that even George Boleyn would have lied if he was presented with the same offer that Norris was presented with, condemning his sister and allowing her to be led to the scaffold like a lamb to the slaughter if it meant that he could secure his own life and freedom by confessing.

"If he was her lover, then surely he would wish to protect her, regardless of the cost to himself..." He began persuasively, hoping to be able to appeal to Henry's jealousy and knowing that, even if he no longer loved Anne, even if he was desperate to be rid of her, his pride would sting at the thought that she loved another man.

His pride…

Why had he not considered that, while Henry's pride would not allow him to simply cast Anne aside because it suited him to do so, prompting his subjects to mock him as inconstant for having gone to such trouble in order to free himself of his first marriage so that he might marry Anne, only to tire of her in turn, it would also make him unwilling to fully believe that he was a cuckold, to truly accept that his wife could truly have bedded other men under his nose and found them to be better lovers than himself?

That miscalculation could cost him dearly.

"Not at this cost." Henry stated positively. There was no doubt in his mind of that. Norris knew that Anne was doomed, regardless of what he said. He couldn't save her life by denying the allegations but he could save his own by admitting that they were true, and he could also secure his children's future welfare if he was willing to cooperate. He was sure that no man would continue to cling to a lie under such circumstances. He certainly would not, were he to find himself in Norris' shoes. "He was not lying, Master Cromwell. I believed him."

Cromwell paused before he spoke, trying to decide what to say. He did not hesitate long but it was long enough for Henry to notice. "Perhaps we may have been mistaken regarding Norris' conviction," he allowed after a moment's pause, thinking it best to admit defeat in one regard, in the hopes that the King would not look any further into the matter. "He was known to spend a great deal of time in Her Majesty's room but perhaps his intent there was innocent, that he truly did go there only to court Lady Shelton, and he was not among those whom the Queen enticed as her lovers..."

"But he was found guilty." Henry pointed out, his tone unrelenting. "The court examined the evidence and believed that he was guilty. They were convinced that he was the Queen's lover and that he coupled with her many times, since shortly after he returned to court. They had the evidence in front of them and it was enough for them to believe him to be guilty and to sentence him to death. Are you suggesting that the court – that the judges acting in _my_ name – could have made a mistake?"

"It is possible, Your Majesty, they are not infallible, after all and they may have been mistaken about the evidence against Norris." Cromwell realized his mistake when he saw the expression on Henry's face at his words, the glint of light in his eyes as he seized on what he had said.

From the early days of his reign, Henry had made a point of speaking with his humblest subjects during the course of his progresses, something that contributed considerably to his popularity amongst them and which mean that he knew far more of their work than most of his predecessors had troubled to learn and Cromwell's admission prompted a recollection of a discussion he had had with a weaver's guild in Cornwall, many years ago, one that seemed peculiarly appropriate at this moment. "When a weaver finds a flaw in a piece of cloth he has woven, he knows that he must scrutinize the rest of the cloth for other flaws, or else the whole thing can be unravelled. If the court was mistaken when it convicted Norris, then surely that means that the Queen was innocent of the charges involving him." He pointed out. It wasn't just _one_ court and _one_ set of judges that had made mistakes; Norris and Anne might have been accused together, but they were tried separately, he in an ordinary court and she before a court of peers.

"Yes, Your Majesty." Cromwell admitted reluctantly.

"And if she is innocent of those charges, and was mistakenly convicted of them, then it is possible that she was innocent of some of the other charges laid against her – perhaps all of them." Henry added thoughtfully. The thought was one that had not left him since Norris refused his offer and, in the process, convinced Henry of his innocence. If a mistake was made once, it could be made again... and if it had not been a mistake, if the judges had not been convinced of the guilt of the men who were accused of being Anne's lovers but they had still convicted them, believing that this was what Henry wanted, it was an even more troubling prospect. He didn't want to learn that this was the case, as the idea of his subjects seeing him as a man who would be pleased if his judges condemned innocent people to death because it would be more convenient for him if they did, but if there was a possibility that this might be the case, then he had to investigate it thoroughly, until there was no remaining doubt in his mind. His conscience would never allow him a moment's peace if he did anything less. "Where is Smeaton being kept?"

The question was addressed to Kingston rather than to him but, even so, Cromwell was the first to speak, "Smeaton. Your Majesty?" He asked, not liking where this was going.

"Yes, Smeaton." Henry snapped at him. "He was the first to confess, wasn't he? And his confession named others, including Norris – the man whom I believe to be innocent. I want to know why he named him, if he believed that it was true or if he named him, knowing that he was not culpable, and if that is the case, then I want to know why. I want to know why he would lie." Smeaton couldn't have a grudge against Norris, Henry would never believe that; Norris was not a man who made enemies, there was nobody Henry knew of who had had a bad word to say about him, at least prior to his being named in the investigation into Anne's alleged crimes, and since Henry did not believe that Norris had been Anne's lover, not any more, he couldn't believe that Smeaton was motivated by jealousy when he named Norris, since the man could not have been his rival for her love. "I need to speak to him."

Cromwell's eyes widened in alarm. Although it was not unusual for commoners to be tortured in order to obtain the information or the confessions they needed, which was how Mark Smeaton's confession was obtained – and he had taken longer than most, lasting far longer and enduring far more terrible tortures than one would have expected a man who had lived a sheltered, pampered life at court as the Queen's favourite musician to be able to endure, before he could be induced to say a word – Cromwell had guessed that Henry might be sceptical of a confession obtained through torture so he had not been entirely honest in his account of the interrogation, something he now had cause to regret.

"Your Majesty, I would advise against it – it would not be right for you to go down to the dungeons, among common criminals, especially when there is such a risk of contagion." He added in a concerned tone, playing on Henry's fear of disease and hoping that his obsession with keeping himself safe from illness and danger, especially since his jousting accident, which had almost cost him his life and left Princess Elizabeth, less than three years old, as his legal heir, would prove to be stronger that his suspicions about the investigation. Certainly nobody could deny that the dungeons were likely to be rife with all kinds of foul diseases; it was far from unheard of for an unfortunate soul who had been condemned to death to catch an illness and die of it before he could be executed, saving the price of an executioner's fee.

Henry raised a suspicious eyebrow. "You do not wish me to speak to Smeaton, Master Cromwell?" He asked coldly. "Are you afraid of what he might say to me? Are you afraid that, when he and I come face to face, Smeaton will proclaim his innocence, and the Queen's? Surely if that is the case, you would not wish for me to ignore the possibility that I will uncover new evidence, evidence that might exonerate my Queen, even if I must take risks with my person in order to do so – and if you _are_ afraid of what I might uncover, then disease or no disease, I can hardly trust you to speak to him in my place and make an honest report to me of what he has said, can I?" He asked pointedly, knowing this to be true. If he allowed Cromwell to interview Smeaton in his stead, then his Lord Chancellor would return with reassurances that Smeaton continued to maintain his guilt, reassurances that he would never be able to trust were true. He ordered Kingston to bring him to Smeaton immediately and stalked off after him, leaving a dismayed Cromwell to trail in his wake, his feeling of dread increasing with every step.

If the corridor with the cells for highborn prisoners was a dismal, malodorous place, it was clean and sweet smelling compared to the dungeons. There were no windows and no hint of sunlight. Torches were lit to enable them to see where they were walking and Henry's nose wrinkled fastidiously when he saw that the stone flagged floor was wet, the foul liquid seeping through his shoes, despite his efforts to avoid the wetness as much as possible, stepping only in the driest spots, and to keep away from the walls, so that the years of ingrained dirt and mould would not stain his doublet.

A piercing shriek of pain, of a man enduring the agony of the damned reverberated through the dungeons and Henry, startled by the sound, stumbled and would have fallen if not for Kingston's supporting arm.

"Torture?" Henry asked flatly, receiving a reluctant nod from Kingston by way of response.

"It is regrettable, Your Majesty, but it is sometimes necessary to resort to extreme and distasteful measures in order to obtain the information we seek." Cromwell spoke up daringly, getting a frown and a hard stare from Henry in response.

"And confessions?" He asked pointedly.

"Sometimes." Cromwell admitted.

"But not in this case, Master Cromwell, isn't that what you told me?" Henry pressed, remembering what Cromwell had told him about the details of Smeaton's confession. As Smeaton was a commoner, he had made a point of enquiring about whether the man had had to be tortured in order to obtain his confession, along with the evidence he gave against others, aware of the fact that a man being put to the rack might not have the courage to hold to the truth, despite the agony he was enduring and that a weaker man might lie to save himself from further pain but Cromwell had assured him that this was not the case, indicating that he had no need to worry about the validity of the confession. "If I remember your account of his questioning and confession correctly, once you questioned Smeaton about his involvement with the Queen, he broke down and confessed his crimes to you, and those of the others… including Norris."

He was a fool to have accepted this so blindly, Henry told himself, trying not to think that he had accepted it because a part of him wanted to accept it, to believe that Smeaton was telling the truth and that he had done so freely because if that was the case, if Anne was guilty, then no man in Europe could fault him if he set that whore aside and replaced her with an honest, virtuous maiden, one he could be sure loved him truly and would never have betrayed him as Anne had. He had known that if Anne was an adulteress, then it was only a matter of days, weeks at the very most, before he would be a free man and able to offer his sweet Jane an honourable marriage – the only way that he could ever hope to make her his, as she was a truly virtuous woman who would never be willing to become a man's mistress, one who would surely prefer to be the wife of a poor farmhand than the mistress of the greatest King in Christendom – and so he had not questioned Cromwell's story of Smeaton's confession.

He should have realized that if Smeaton was guilty, he would never freely confess it, not when he would know what the penalty for his crime was. What man would be prepared to condemn both himself and the woman whose lover he had been to death if he could save their lives simply by keeping his mouth shut? Even honesty had its limits.

Guilty or innocent, a man being tortured might say anything to end his pain…

"If it pleases you, Your Majesty, I deemed it best that Smeaton should be kept apart from the other prisoners, in a cell of his own." Kingston spoke up, bowing in Henry's direction and wisely refraining from mentioning the true reasons for his decision. Even in the Tower, amongst prisoners who had good cause to be far more worried about their own necks than anybody else's, speculation about the Queen's trial and conviction was rife and the last thing Kingston had wanted was for either the prisoners who were sentenced to imprisonment for a period or for any visitors to see the musician's state and to spread word of it throughout London, something that would undoubtedly add further fuel to the rumours of the injustice of the trials.

Henry nodded acknowledgement of his words but did not say anything.

Kingston motioned for one of the guards to approach, accepting a heavy ring of keys from him and, after examining them for a moment to select the right key, he opened the door to Smeaton's cell, looking inside to make sure that all was well and that the prisoner was securely manacled and chained to the wall, unable to break free and harm the King even if he had had the strength to do so, before he stepped back to allow Henry to enter the cell.

Cromwell stepped forward, ready to follow Henry into the cell in the faint hope that his presence might be enough to intimidate Smeaton into holding fast to the details of his confession instead of taking the opportunity to plead his innocence but Henry motioned for him to remain where he was.

"You will remain out here, Master Cromwell." He instructed sharply, in a tone that was better suited to addressing a menial servant than the Lord Chancellor of England, his tone, frown and impatient gesture leaving no room for argument. "If you set foot inside this cell, you will soon be occupying one of your own, and not for a short visit either, do you understand?"

"Yes, Your Majesty." Cromwell responded, taking a reluctant step backwards and watching Henry enter the tiny cell, wondering if he was going to find himself imprisoned anyway. If Master Kingston's silence and his unwillingness to meet his eyes were any indication, the Constable of the Tower was as aware as he was that this could mean serious trouble for him.

The King of England was about to catch him out in a lie and there was nothing he could do to prevent it.

Although he expected to be able to see that Smeaton had been tortured, instinctively knowing that Cromwell had lied, Henry was ill-prepared for how truly appalling the other man's state would be and he couldn't keep himself from crying out at the sight of him, though even he couldn't have said whether he cried out in dismay, sympathy, anger or perhaps even remorse.

He would never have recognized the musician that so many of his courtiers hailed as a genius, a man able to produce music that surely rivalled that of Orpheus and who had been at the heart of the revels at court for over four years, as the first among the court musicians and the most favoured by far, since the day when Anne first presented him. Henry could remember how eagerly she sang his praises then, insisting that he was a genius, the finest musician she had ever heard, more skilled than even Thomas Tallis, whose talents were quickly eclipsed by those of the newcomer.

Although he invited Smeaton to play when Anne introduced him, amused and touched by his sweetheart's enthusiasm, he had not expected that anybody could play as well as Anne insisted that Smeaton could and he was pleasantly surprised to be proven wrong and delighted to have such a fine musician, surely finer than any in King Francis' employ, at his court.

The cheerful young man who always smiled broadly as he played his music for the court, who dressed as well as a gentleman because his skills were so prized and because he spent so much time in the royal court, was gone and in his place sat a prisoner in a truly wretched condition. Instead of the fine suits he had been gifted with by Anne, his patroness, he was clad in shabby breeches and a plain linen shirt that looked as though he had not been given the opportunity to change them since his arrest over a fortnight ago. They were torn in places, reeking of sweat and waste and stained with blood. His black curls were damp with blood and sweat, matted to his skull and his once sparkling eyes were devoid of mirth and joy. One eye was swollen shut, crusted over with dried blood and it seemed as though there was not an inch of his skin that was not mottled with angry purple bruises. As a lowborn prisoner, he was denied even the few privileges allowed to the other men who were accused with Anne and he was shackled to the damp wall of his tiny, windowless cell, left to sit on a floor that was wet and filthy with his own waste.

His hands were the worst.

The slender, graceful hands that were once able to draw such heavenly music from his violin or lute, and with such apparent ease, were now crushed, mangled and useless, each finger broken and crooked, with his fingernails ripped from their beds, leaving his hands sticky with the blood that continued to seep from the wounded fingertips.

Henry did not need to be a physician to know that Smeaton's hands would never be able to make music again.

The other man didn't look up when he entered the cell, not until Henry spoke his name and even then, his eyes couldn't focus on his face properly and his head lolled like that of a rag doll as he tried to turn to look at his visitor.

"'S it time?" He asked hoarsely, giving no indication of whether he recognized Henry or if he thought that he was only another guard. His voice was scarcely louder than a whisper as he pleaded "Let it be time, please let it be time," his tone one of desperation. His pain was so great that it seemed as though death must be an immense relief to him, a mercy rather than further punishment. Once he was dead, they wouldn't be able to hurt him any more.

"No," Henry said, hanging back by the door for a few moments before taking a tentative step forward, feeling rather thankful that the light in the cell was so poor that it did not allow him to see Smeaton more clearly; if the injuries he could see were any indication, he did not want to see any more of the damage that had been done to the other man as Cromwell attempted to wrest a confession from him, the confession that had implicated Anne and that had prompted him to call for the arrests of the other men who were named in the investigation. "I need to speak to you about the Queen."

That seemed to get Smeaton's attention. His head lolled to the side and he squinted with his good eye, trying to focus on the face of his visitor. There was a faint glint of recognition in his eyes but he didn't make any gesture of respect, as he would have under other circumstances. He let out a soft chuckle, which quickly turned to a cough as his bruised throat clenched at the effort of making a sound. "'S you. W'at... want?" His words were scarcely audible but Henry took his meaning.

"The Queen." Henry prompted him urgently. He could feel his heart sinking as he looked at Smeaton, knowing that if the man had been forced to endure such torture, his confession was suspect at best, especially since Cromwell – with whom he intended to deal in the very near future – had lied about the level of force he had needed to employ in order to secure the confession. Smeaton's testimony was used as evidence against the other men at their trials, and against Anne at hers, and he had not needed to be told that it was instrumental in securing their convictions. If his testimony was false… "Were you her lover, Smeaton? I need to know!"

He expected fervent denials – and later it would strike him as odd that it never entered his head that he might hear the musician confess that he truly had been Anne's lover – but he did not expect the other man to laugh, yet that was what happened. Smeaton let out a thin, humourless laugh that was almost a sob, looking up at Henry with a wild glint in his eyes.

"No," He shook his head slightly, still laughing, tears streaming down his eyes. "Never. Never." He repeated, controlling his voice with great effort and meeting Henry's gaze squarely.

"But you were in her rooms, playing for her... alone." Henry frowned as he spoke; according to Cromwell, one of Anne's ladies had given testimony that Smeaton had been summoned to her rooms, to play for her late one evening but, with hindsight, he couldn't make himself believe that there was anything amiss about that. The lady who gave testimony had clearly been present on the occasion in question, if she was able to bear witness about what had happened, which was to be expected. As Queen, Anne would never have been left entirely alone, if Henry was not with her, then at least one of her ladies would be, and she would never have been stupid enough to betray him in the hearing of others.

"I played for her." Mark said softly, a sympathetic smile on his face. "She was so lonely, poor lady."

Henry stiffened at this, sensing a rebuke and balking at the idea that his conduct towards his wife was being criticized. He couldn't deny that Anne was likely to have been lonely during the later part of their marriage, particularly over the last few months. She had never had many friends at court – there were plenty of people who would be all to eager to court her good will when she was high in his favour and her star was rising, but very few who would be willing to stand her friends if they saw that her position was growing weaker and knew that she would not be able to help them advance, who would not immediately abandon her in favour of others who were seen to be higher in his favour… like Jane – and he certainly had spent as little time with her as he could recently, shunning her company in favour of Brandon's and that of other women, leaving Anne to rely on her brother's company, and even the company of a humble musician when she felt lonely.

Nothing would excuse adultery, of course, especially considering Anne's station and the risk that she might taint the royal line, which should be kept pure and sacred, with bastardy but could he really condemn her for wanting to seek out the friendship of the few people who were still prepared to stand by her when her position was weak?

Even though he knew what the answer would be, he still had to ask. "Do you swear to me that you were never the Queen's lover?" He demanded urgently.

Smeaton shook his head again, more forcefully this time. "Never." He vowed before chuckling again, his laughter growing louder and louder, until it verged on hysteria, something that Henry found to be deeply unnerving. "The wrong one," he giggled, only half-aware of what he was saying and unable to control his tongue or his laughter. "They 'ccused me with the wrong Boleyn!" He dissolved into a helpless mixture of laughter and sobbing, tears flowing down his cheeks.

"Mary?" Henry was astonished. "You were Mary's lover?" It would be an understatement to say that Anne's older sister had managed to acquire a rather unsavoury reputation, and she had had to be banished from the court almost two years ago, for marrying without the knowledge or consent of her family. At the time, Henry had been far from pleased by the thought that Mary had provided him with a common soldier to call his brother-in-law, and if Anne had not already ordered her sister banished from the court, he would have ordered Mary and her new husband to leave himself, forbidding them to return or to contact Anne, who, as a member of the royal family, could not associate with such a couple. However, despite the scandals circulating about Mary, he had never heard that she was Smeaton's lover. Surely such an affair could not have gone unnoticed.

Mark shook his head in denial, laughing again. Henry wondered if the torture he had endured had turned the man's wits, reducing the astonishingly gifted musician to little more than a mad man. How else could he laugh at his current situation, knowing that he would be dead by the end of the week? "Not Mary," he said, his tone becoming slightly high-pitched, hysterical. "Not Mary and not Anne."

Henry couldn't believe his ears, couldn't believe that Smeaton had just said what he had heard him say.

That was impossible!

Surely George Boleyn would never become the lover of another man – if anything, Henry would have said that his brother-in-law had a reputation as a womaniser – and if he did, surely it could not have remained a secret for so long, not at court, where every man's moves were noted by both his friends and his enemies, and not when George, as the brother of the Queen of England, was bound to attract far more than his fair share of attention, with so many people who would be all too willing to taint Anne with scandal and disgrace, even second-hand, by implicating her brother in such an unnatural crime.

Had George been caught, had knowledge of his affair become public, it would have meant his death. Even at the height of his love for Anne, when he would have done anything if it meant winning a smile from her, Henry would not have been able to turn a blind eye to George's offence, even for Anne's sake. He would not have been able to afford to be seen to condone his actions by pardoning him, and even if he banished him from the court, or even from the country, it would not be seen to be enough. He would have had no alternative but to sign the death warrant, even if he would break Anne's heart by doing so.

Yet who would ever have suspected such a thing of George, of all people?

Henry had just heard an admission from Smeaton himself and his first instinct had been to disbelieve it – and he had believed George to be capable of committing incest with his own sister! For a man with George's reputation when it came to women, was it really so surprising that nobody would have imagined, for even a moment, that he would ever dream of becoming the lover of another man? Was it surprising that he would have been able to spend time with Mark, both in public and in private, without anybody batting an eye or suspecting for a moment that there was any reason to be suspicious about their relationship?

The whole affair could have proceeded under the noses of the court, escaping the notice of King and Queen, courtiers and servants alike, even escaping the notice of Thomas Boleyn, who seemed to make a point of knowing exactly what his children were doing, particularly since Mary had disgraced herself. Had Smeaton not confessed, nobody would have known what was happening.

Well, one person would probably have known...

The pieces began to fall into place for Henry with merciless clarity.

According to Cromwell, even though Anne's ladies had named George as one of the men who was known to visit Anne's apartments frequently and to spend time alone with her, he was inclined to dismiss the possibility that he might have been one of her lovers and to put it down as a brother spending time with his sister, completely innocent and nothing that Henry or anybody else needed to be concerned about, until he heard testimony that made him rethink his initial instinct to dismiss George as a possible suspect... from Lady Rochford.

If the man's own wife was prepared to condemn him, despite knowing that if he was attainted as a traitor, she would lose out on much of her inheritance and jointure and be left in much poorer financial circumstances than those she had grown accustomed to since her marriage, in addition to losing her privileged place at court as sister-in-law to the Queen, then surely that was all the evidence they needed of George's guilt. Cromwell had said, and Henry agreed with him, that Lady Rochford could surely have no reason to lie about her husband's guilt, not when she would know that she would be condemning him to death if she bore false witness against him, and condemning herself to the existence of the widow of a convicted traitor, who would have to leave the court and who would be fortunate if she was able to secure a pension sufficient to meet her needs and allow her to live in the comfort that a gentlewoman could expect to enjoy.

No reason apart from revenge, that is.

If George was Smeaton's lover and if his wife knew of it, then it was certain that she would be angry, distressed and humiliated by it, perhaps enough to be willing to see her husband and his paramour dead, even if she had to condemn her sister-in-law as well in order to achieve this aim, rather than allow them to continue to humiliate her with their affair.

Outside the cell, Cromwell had to strain to hear Smeaton's words and when he did, the colour drained from his face, leaving him as pale as bleached linen and coming to much the same conclusions as Henry had.

He could not deny that he was intrigued when George was first mentioned as one of the men who were known to visit Anne's apartments. Anne might be unpopular but the people would still balk at the idea of her being tried for adultery and treason. If incest could be added to the list of crimes alleged against her, then there would hopefully be very few people who would be willing to side with her. The crime would be so foul that Anne would be tainted by the mere suggestion of it. However, he knew that even in a court from which only one verdict would be expected, he would have an extremely difficult time convincing the peers sitting in judgement on the case, not to mention the people who would be allowed to be present for the trial, if he attempted to cite Madge Shelton's testimony that she had seen Queen Anne hugging and kissing her brother as evidence that the two were involved in an incestuous relationship. He needed more than that and when Lady Rochford obliged him by providing it, he had not questioned her motives for doing so.

He had almost felt like kissing the woman when she calmly informed him that she believed that her husband had committed incest with his sister, knowing that the testimony of a man's wife, a woman who could be shown as deeply grieved and hurt by his unnatural crimes, would be invaluable.

Had he known of the relationship between Smeaton and Lord Rochford, had he known that Lady Rochford had ample motive to lie about her husband and send him to his death with her lies, he would have reconsidered the idea of naming George as one of Anne's lovers, relying on the others to secure a conviction instead and knowing that he had been able to arrange for sufficient evidence against her to manage this without any great difficulty. Anne was the one that needed to be removed from the picture, not her brother and not her father. They could have been allowed to live, although without Anne, they would be disgraced and exiled from the court, losing out on all they had gained from her relationship with the King, no longer able to pose a threat to Cromwell, to the Seymours or to anybody else, or to raise a party in support of little Princess Elizabeth, championing her claim as the King's lawful heir against that of the Lady Mary.

Henry's scowl was black when he emerged from Smeaton's room and that scowl was immediately directed at Cromwell, who felt his guts knotting at the sight of the expression on his master's face, almost able to feel the anger coming off him in waves.

"That's three, Master Cromwell." Henry stated grimly. Four men had been accused of being Anne's lovers and were convicted as such. He was now convinced of the innocence of three of those men.

God help Cromwell if three became four!

* * *

"Won't you take a little something, Your Majesty?" One of the maids assigned to tend to Anne's needs during her period of imprisonment asked tentatively, lifting up the plate of food, which her temporary mistress had left completely untouched, worried by her continuing refusal to eat. Under other circumstances, she would not have dared to address the Queen of England like that, knowing that it would be completely unacceptable for her to presume to do so – regardless of whether the Queen was a glutton for food or if she was starving herself of all nourishment, it was not her servant's place to remonstrate with her – but Master Kingston had specifically charged them with taking care of her, seeing to it that she was in a fit state to stand trial and that, when the time came for her to be executed, she would be strong enough to endure the ordeal, at least physically.

"No, thank you." Anne said absently, picking up one of her books and leafing through the pages for a few moments before setting it aside, unable to concentrate on the words on the page.

"You barely ate a bite of bread for breakfast," her maid persisted, holding the plate poised over the bucket used for disposing of rubbish and uneaten food, reluctant to throw it away if there was any chance that the Queen could be persuaded to eat it. Even a few mouthfuls would be _something_. "Master Kingston said that if the food is not to your liking, he could have something else sent up, whatever you fancy." She reminded her.

"I know." At times, Anne felt almost sorry for Master Kingston; surely none of his predecessors had ever been asked to keep a woman who was both the Queen of England and a convicted traitor as their prisoner. As she was a prisoner in his charge, it was his duty to see to it that she was kept closely confined, given no opportunity to either escape or to send secret messages without Henry's permission, so he could not disobey the instructions he was given regarding her imprisonment. However, he was also very conscious of her rank and endeavoured to treat her accordingly, repeatedly assuring her that if she wanted anything sent to her, books, writing materials, cloth and thread for embroidery or her lute to help her pass the time, he would make arrangements for them to be brought at once, just as he would make arrangements regarding her meals if she would only tell him what it was she wanted to eat. He had even offered to send her the best cuts from his own table if she wished, an offer she thanked him for but declined to take him up on. Her appetite seemed to have vanished since her arrest and any food she managed to force herself to eat turned to ashes in her mouth. "I'm not hungry." She picked up her book again, opening it but not reading it, a signal for the maid to leave her to her thoughts.

Outside, she could hear the sounds of the scaffold being erected, noise that even the glazed windows of her chamber could not entirely muffle.

Had it been a calculated act of cruelty on Cromwell's part to ensure that she would be able to hear every blow of the hammer, workman's curse and falling plank from the chamber in which she had been lodged? She couldn't bear the thought that Henry might have been the one to be so malicious, ensuring that even her last few days would be haunted by the sounds of the construction of the scaffold on which her blood would soon be spilled.

She automatically put a hand to her neck, shutting her eyes to try to block out the visual of a blade slicing through it, severing her head from her body,

Henry once told her that he loved her neck.

Now he was willing to see her neck severed if by doing so he could free himself to marry that Seymour bitch.

When she was first brought to the Tower, Anne was half-afraid that she would be lodged in a dungeon. The rage in Henry's eyes the last time she saw him suggested that he would be more than capable of ordering that she be locked in a dungeon while she awaited her trial and execution. It had been a relief to be conducted to this chamber that, while bare and dismal compared to the royal apartments to which she had grown accustomed, was palatial compared to the dungeons. Because she was still the Queen of England, she was assigned maids to attend her in her confinement and she was repeatedly assured that any reasonable requests she made would be granted.

There was only one thing she really wanted, although she couldn't say whether or not Master Kingston would consider her request to be a reasonable one.

She wanted to see Elizabeth.

She wanted to be able to hold her daughter in her arms once more, to kiss her and hug her and promise her that, even though she had to go away and would no longer be able to see her, she would always be watching over her and keeping her safe.

She wanted to tell Elizabeth how much she loved her, to repeat those words so often that even at her tender age, her daughter would be able to understand and to remember, for the rest of her life, that she had had a mother and that her mother had loved her more than anybody else, more than she would ever have thought she could love somebody until the moment when her newborn daughter was first laid in her arms, looking up at her with bright blue eyes that already showed her intelligence.

Elizabeth's sex may have been a disappointment, Anne couldn't deny that she too had been unhappy when she was first told that her baby was a daughter rather than the son Henry needed but once she held Elizabeth, she knew that she wouldn't change anything about her, including her sex, even if she had had the power to do so.

Even now, despite everything that had happened, she wouldn't change so much as a hair on her daughter's head or a freckle on her nose.

Their time together had been so short, too short...

She hadn't asked about the possibility of a visit from her daughter, however, not because she was afraid that her request would be refused but because she was afraid that it _wouldn't_ be.

Anne knew that if she was told that she was to be allowed to see Elizabeth, that her precious child was to be brought to her chamber to see her before her execution, she would not be able to refuse this chance to say goodbye to her... and how could she have her child brought to this place? How could she possibly allow Elizabeth to see her as she was now, a frightened prisoner who knew that her days of life were numbered and that it would not be long now before her blood was spilled on the Tower Green, as the blood of countless others had been spilled before hers, a woman who knew that the husband she loved was willing to see her murdered?

What could she possibly say to Elizabeth if she was allowed to see her? How could she explain to a small child that the person signing her mama's death warrant, rendering her motherless with a few strokes of the pen, swiftly followed by a stroke of the axe, was none other than her papa? As intelligent and precocious as Elizabeth was, there was no way that she would ever be able to understand the situation. As well as that, Anne knew that she could not afford to take the chance that her young daughter would turn against her father over this. Elizabeth would be dependent on her father's favour and could not afford to anger him by siding with her mother.

When she was older, all she would hear of her mother was that she was a traitor, an adulteress who betrayed her father and who deserved her punishment. Elizabeth would have a stepmother soon – and a succession of them if Mistress Seymour was not quick about producing the son Henry craved; she was not a woman who would be able to hold Henry's attention for any significant length of time without a son to bolster her position – and Anne could only pray that the other woman would be a kinder stepmother to her daughter than she had been to Katherine's.

Anne was realistic enough to know that once she was gone, there would be few, if any, people who would be willing to brave Henry's wrath by speaking up on Elizabeth's behalf, encouraging him to think kindly of their beautiful daughter and to keep himself from allowing his anger towards her to affect his feelings for or his treatment of their innocent child. The members of her family who did not follow her to the scaffold would be in disgrace, unable to exercise even a modicum of influence over Henry, on Elizabeth's behalf or for any other cause. The Seymours were rumoured to be supporters of the Lady Mary and if they wanted to push for her restoration, to Henry's good graces, to her former status as Princess or both, Mary's gain would be Elizabeth's loss.

If Jane Seymour wished to see the Lady Mary restored as Henry's heiress, then the last thing she would want would be to encourage Henry to think fondly of Elizabeth, for fear that he would favour her instead; while Mary had angered Henry to no end with her obstinate refusal to yield to his will, Elizabeth was a little child who would not be called upon to side with her father and repudiate her mother and who could not anger Henry with a refusal to do so. Perhaps he would come to feel pity for their daughter, even if he was unwilling to allow himself to regret that he had robbed her of her mother, and would welcome her back, if somebody was willing to brave his anger by encouraging him to do so.

Outside, the hammering continued and it sounded impossibly loud to Anne, as though they were deliberately making as much noise as they possibly could in order to disturb her, each blow of the hammer reminding her of what they were constructing and what it would soon be used for.

She was going to die.

She was going to die and, because of her, so would four innocent men, her own beloved brother included. They were as guiltless as she was but that wouldn't keep them from being casualties in Henry's quest to be rid of her. At least if he had had her poisoned, she would have been the only one to die. She wouldn't be dragging them to their deaths with her.

All she could be thankful for was that her father had not been charged and condemned.

Once the dust settled after the executions, it was likely that he would be released, disgraced and probably considerably poorer than he was before but alive, at least.

She would never be able to read her book with the noise outside, and if she continued to dwell on her impending execution, all it could do would be to rob her of her peace of mind and ensure that she was unable to make preparations for her death with the tranquillity that such arrangements demanded. Father Parker, her almoner, had promised that he would be there to see her later in the afternoon; he was a kind man who would pray with her, talk to her or listen to whatever it was she had to say, whatever she needed from him. She was looking forward to his visit, to being able to talk to somebody she could trust not to run to Kingston or, worse still, Cromwell bearing tales about every word that passed her lips in the hopes that it could be twisted against her but it would be more than two hours before he would arrive and, until then, the last thing she wanted was to be fussed over by her maids who, while kind and polite, reminded her of a trio of mother hens.

Setting her book back on the table, Anne rose, crossing the room to her bed and lying down on it, closing her eyes. If she could sleep, she would be glad of the rest, especially since she had slept poorly at night since she was brought here but even if she couldn't drift off, as long as her attendants thought that she was sleeping, they wouldn't disturb her.

She was beginning to drowse off when she heard the bolt of her door slide back, with the door pushed open to admit one of the maids. She opened one eye a fraction and saw that the maid was carrying a pile of fresh linen, closing her eyes again and listening to their conversation.

"Is she asleep?" The maid bearing the linen asked in a hushed tone.

"Yes, poor lady." Another responded. Anne heard footsteps and assumed that the speaker was moving to help put the linen away, so that they could make the bed later, after her nap.

"You'll never guess what I heard from one of the guards." The first speaker said, half-whispering, her curiousity and excitement evident in her tone. "They say that the King himself has come to visit the Tower, and that he's here now, with the Lord Chancellor and Master Kingston!"

"Why?" Her companion asked, bewildered, echoing the question in Anne's mind.

What could Henry possibly want to come to the Tower for? He had certainly shown no inclination to come to see her since her arrest; perhaps he was afraid that if they came face to face, if he gave her the opportunity to answer the charges laid against her directly, she would be able to make him see the truth and convince him of her innocence, and that if she did, his conscience would not allow him to see her executed for a crime she had not committed.

He wouldn't want to take the risk that she might be able to successfully plead her case. He had not even been present for her trial; if he had been there, if he had heard how she was able to refute every charge laid against her without the slightest hesitation –despite the fact that she had not been told in advance what those charges would be, in the hopes that she would be thrown off balance when they were listed during her trial and left unable to defend herself properly – he would not have been able to continue to convince himself of her guilt. Had the court been an unbiased one, Anne did not doubt that she would have been acquitted. The 'evidence' Cromwell produced against her was unconvincing at best, and she was able to defeat the arguments of her accusers with calm logic, making their case against her sound as absurd as it truly was, at least if the supportive murmurs of the people watching her trial were any indication. More than a few of the peers sitting in judgment on her case were unable to meet her eye when they pronounced her guilty, the best indication she could have had that they did not truly believe her to be guilty.

But they had still condemned her.

They might not have been convinced of her guilt but they had still pronounced her guilty because they believed that this was the verdict that Henry wanted them to deliver.

That was what hurt her most, not that Henry believed her to be guilty but that he _wanted_ to believe it, wanted to believe it so badly that he was willing to allow the investigation about her activities to be conducted by a man with whom he knew she was at odds, while her trial was presided over by peers who would not dare to risk his anger by delivering a verdict other than the one he expected because he wanted to be free of her.

The man she had loved… the man she _still_ loved was willing to see her murdered so that he could marry another woman.

Her maids continued to speculate in whispers, trying to come up with a reason for why Henry would come to the Tower now, and what he could possibly want.

Anne kept her eyes shut, tuning out their words.

Whatever it was that had prompted Henry's visit, she doubted that it would make any difference to her now.

* * *

As uncomfortable and worried as he was about Henry's decision to investigate the evidence against Anne personally, and about the fact that so far, he had been less than pleased with what he had uncovered, Cromwell still had one card left to play, one chance that he could escape from this unscathed.

Brereton had confessed.

He was a gentleman by birth and had not been tortured, or even threatened with torture if he refused to cooperate, but he had still confessed, almost without hesitation.

If Cromwell had not known better, he would have sworn that the man was actually eager to condemn himself and Anne, which struck him as odd at the time, since Brereton knew well what the penalty for treason was and since, but for his confession, they did not have any evidence against him except for mention of the fact that he visited Anne's rooms on occasion. However, he had not been prepared to dispute Brereton's confession, throwing away a valuable weapon in his arsenal against Anne.

If Brereton held to his confession when the King questioned him, maintaining that he had been Anne's lover and that he had freely confessed to this, then Henry could be confident of Anne's guilt and he would be able to quiet the stirrings of his conscience at the thought of condemning his wife to death. Cromwell would also be cleared of having conspired to bring an innocent woman to the scaffold.

His problems would not be over, he knew that.

Henry was now convinced that Norris, Smeaton and Rochford were all innocent of the crimes they were condemned to die for but there was no way that the three men could be spared; if they were to suddenly be acquitted or even pardoned for their offences, then the people would assume that Anne and Brereton were also innocent and they would be furious at the thought that their executions were still to go ahead. The executions would have to proceed as planned, all of them, or this would never be over. It would not be so bad where Smeaton and Rochford were concerned; Smeaton had confessed their relationship, and that would have meant their deaths in any case, so Henry would be able to reconcile himself to the idea of sending them to their deaths, perhaps even consoling himself with the thought that he was sparing them from the shame that would inevitably follow if their true offence became public knowledge, but Norris was another matter.

He had committed no crime that would merit his execution but he still had to die.

Cromwell prayed that Henry would be able to view the matter reasonably and dispassionately, to see that even if Norris was innocent, his execution was a small price to pay in order to grant England the stability that an unchallenged marriage with Mistress Seymour, together with the birth of an unquestionably legitimate son and heir would bring it.

What was one man's life next to the future of all of the King's subjects?

If Henry was prepared to allow the execution to proceed, despite being convinced of Norris' innocence, then Cromwell knew that it was very likely that he would wish to forget that he had ever agreed to such a thing and, if that was the case, he would banish the thought from his memory and Cromwell could rest easier, knowing that it was very unlikely that he would be punished for the part he had played in this matter.

Henry's step was quick as he followed Kingston down the corridor towards Brereton's cell, determined to make an end of this matter, once and for all.

When he questioned Norris, he told himself that if the other man confessed, he would accept that confession without argument and abandon the idea of investigating Anne's guilt any further. At the back of his mind, he was conscious of the fact that he should be making himself the same promise with regard to Brereton's confession, vowing to accept it at face value should he admit his guilt to Henry's face and knowing that it would make him a free man but, after speaking to Norris and then to Smeaton, he couldn't reconcile his conscience to simply accepting the confession, without taking the trouble to press for further details and to make sure that the confession could stand up to his scrutiny, that it was convincing enough to leave no possible doubt in his mind about whether or not it was an honest one.

Brereton sprang to his feet when the three of them entered his cell, bowing low in Henry's direction. "Your Majesty."

"Sit down, Brereton." Henry ordered in clipped tones, waving for the man to sit down on the wooden stool provided for him, although he remained standing. "I am here to speak to you about the Queen…"

"I was her lover." Brereton blurted at once. "She seduced me and I was weak, Your Majesty, I yielded to her seduction, forgive me."

Henry was taken aback by the forcefulness of this admission and, even without looking at the other man, he knew that the same was true of Cromwell. Brereton sounded eager to confess, and if Henry didn't know better, he would have said that the man was pleased to do so, as though he took some kind of satisfaction in admitting it. His tone was not a gloating one, as one might have expected if he had truly been Anne's lover and now wanted to mock Henry with that fact now that he was convicted and had nothing to lose by bragging of their affair but, despite his request that Henry forgive him, there was also no remorse in his tone, no shame at the idea of admitting to a man that he had committed adultery with his wife, of admitting to his King that he had risked placing the succession in jeopardy by taking the chance that he might contaminate the purity of the royal bloodline if he sired a son on Anne.

He tried to remember if he had ever seen Anne cast a favourable look in Brereton's direction, if she had ever singled him out to dance with her or if she sought out his conversation but he could not remember a single occasion on which he would have said that Anne paid Brereton even the slightest fraction more of attention than she paid to any other courtier… in fact, if anything, she seemed to have very little time for him, ignoring him as much as good manners allowed.

He certainly didn't seem to be the type of man who would appeal to her.

He could remember seeing Brereton's eyes tracking Anne's movements often enough but he didn't think that he had ever seen any affection or desire in his eyes if he did so.

There was something cold in his eyes, even now, when he spoke of her.

If he had been her lover, surely there would be some sign of longing, of love, of lust, of _something_ in his eyes but they were as cold and as expressionless as stone.

He didn't care about her.

Henry could never deny that he had spent a long time in love with Anne, lusting after her, adoring her, worshipping her and utterly devoted to her. He couldn't detect any hint of similar emotions from Brereton and he couldn't keep himself from doubting the honesty of the other man's confession.

For a brief instant, he thought of Jane, knowing that if he accepted Brereton's words at face value, she would soon be his. The image of her pale face, clear blue eyes and long golden hair appeared in his mind's eye, with her sweet smile, modest and shy but at the same time inviting, betraying a faint hint of promised delights when was free but he banished the image from his mind, frowning at the memory of how he had felt when he heard her speaking with her father and brother, all but gloating at the thought that she would soon be Queen.

He could worry about Jane later. Right now, it was more important that he concern himself with Anne and with ensuring that he had not allowed her to be condemned unjustly.

"Your Majesty, Master Brereton confessed immediately when we spoke to him of the allegations made about his conduct, he confessed without any coercion." Cromwell said ingratiatingly.

"I did." Brereton seconded him at once. "I was the Queen's lover. I admit it."

Henry frowned at the vehemence in his tone as he made this declaration. "You seem very eager to admit this, Master Brereton." He said calmly, refusing to allow any hint of anger to show in either his tone or his facial expression, wanting to make sure that his emotions were as unreadable as he could make them, so that the other man would not be able to tailor his responses to them. "I should have thought that if you were Her Majesty's lover, you would be eager to _protect_ her and that you would hold your tongue, for her sake if not your own." He observed.

Brereton was taken aback by this and it showed. He paused a little too long for Henry's liking and when he spoke again, there was a slight edge of caution in his tone. "I was weak before, and I betrayed Your Majesty but now I know how wrong it was of me to allow myself to be tempted by the har… the Queen into becoming her lover and I cannot continue to keep silent, regardless of the cost." Brereton could have bitten his tongue; after so long of thinking of Anne as a harlot and a witch, of using those terms when he spoke of her to those he trusted, like Ambassador Chapuys, it was sometimes difficult for him to remember not to speak of her thus at court, particularly in front of the King. He prayed that his slip had gone unnoticed.

It had not.

Henry may not have given any indication that he heard Brereton's slip but he could guess what the man was about to say before he hastily corrected himself and used her proper title. It was a term that he often heard applied to Anne… by a certain faction in particular.

"When did you lie with her, Brereton?" He demanded abruptly.

"In July." Brereton responded promptly, trying to recall the details of the confession he had made to Cromwell. At the time, nobody had worried unduly about the finer points of his confession. Once he admitted to being the Queen's lover and cited a date on which they had lain together, Cromwell had not pushed, contenting himself with telling him that that was all he required of him for the present and pointedly thanking him for being honest about it at last.

It had seemed like a sign from God when he was arrested and questioned about whether or not he had ever been the Queen's lover, a divine finger pointing him to the way for him to complete his mission, at long last, and save England. He was ready to deny the allegation utterly, revolted by the thought that he could ever bring himself to touch the harlot's body in that way but then he realized what a simple 'yes' from him could accomplish. Adultery in a Queen was treason and if he confessed to having been Anne's lover, it would mean her execution… his too, but that seemed like a small price to pay to rid England of that woman and her poison.

When it emerged that he was not the only man accused of fornicating with the harlot and he saw that his confession had not been necessary, he had not retracted it, willing to submit to death if it was God's will that he do so, and so he would not retract his confession now.

"July?" Henry affected surprise. "I thought that in your confession, you confessed to having lain with the Queen in _June_."

Had Brereton looked in Cromwell's direction, he would have seen the other man shaking his head firmly, signalling that the King had not read the confession at all and that he was trying to trap him in a lie but he kept his gaze focused on Henry and did not see the hasty signals from Cromwell.

"Yes, Your Majesty, it was June." He amended hastily, inwardly berating himself for forgetting that detail, grimly thinking that, while it was easy to lie and to bear false witness, it could sometimes be difficult to remember the details of the lies he had told before when he was questioned on them later. "Forgive me, I made a mistake with the month. It was in June that I was the Queen's lover."

"I see." Henry allowed the silence to stretch between them for several long minutes, observing Brereton's nervousness and able to sense Cromwell's discomfort from behind him. "Prove it." He said at last, his calm request leaving Brereton open-mouthed in astonishment.

"Your Majesty?"

"You claim that you were the Queen's lover. Prove it." Henry commanded, keeping his gaze fixed on the other man and watching the emotions playing across his face as he scrambled to find proof that would satisfy the King.

"Your Majesty, surely Master Brereton's confession is sufficient evidence…" Cromwell began.

"Not for me." Henry cut him off firmly, not taking his eyes off Brereton. "I am waiting, Brereton."

For a moment, Brereton was at a loss and then, remember a conversation he had had with one of the ladies of Anne's household, whom he had befriended in order to ensure that he would be kept well informed about the harlot's activities, he realized what it was that the King must be seeking by way of proof and he could have laughed at his own foolishness for not realizing it straight away.

"The Queen has secret marks on her body," he began eagerly, looking up at Henry for confirmation that he was on the right track but his expression was unreadable.

"Go on." Henry invited, his tone bland.

"She has an extra fingernail on her little finger, right here," Brereton pointed to side of the smallest finger of his right hand to demonstrate. "She conceals it with her sleeves during the day but when we were alone together, naked, I could see it – as I could see the moles covering her back." He elaborated, in case Henry needed further proof of Anne's guilt. "Dozens of them, all over her naked skin." For a brief instant, his face twisted in a grimace of revulsion at the thought of how corrupt the harlot must be when even her skin was manifesting the evidence of her evil but he suppressed that, looking up at Henry eagerly, hoping that this would satisfy him and leave him in no doubt about Anne's guilt.

"I see." Henry said calmly, remaining silent for a few minutes more, conscious of the fact that both men would be waiting anxiously to hear what he had to say to that. When he addressed Brereton again, his voice and his face betrayed his utter disgust. "Are you really such a coward, Master Brereton, that you would be prepared to perjure yourself for fear that you would be tortured if you did not tell Cromwell what he wanted to hear?" He demanded coldly, revolted by his cowardice, by his willingness to lie and condemn others in order to spare himself pain. "You were willing to see the Queen condemned for a crime she did not commit – did you hope that if you helped to bring about her destruction with your false confession, you would be rewarded for your cooperation and your miserable life would be spared?" He was almost shouting now, feeling very tempted to strike Brereton, or to order that, since he seemed to be so willing to march to his death, he should be executed for lying and for placing the life of an innocent woman in jeopardy with his lies.

"Your Majesty…" Brereton was astonished by his reaction. He had been so certain that his account of Anne's deformities would prove that he was her lover, beyond any possible shadow of a doubt. "The Queen's marks…"

"She is my wife." Henry stated flatly. "I know every inch of her. She has no marks, certainly not the ones that you have described. You lied to me. You were never the Queen's lover." Unwilling to continue to stay in the same room as a liar and a coward a moment longer, he stalked out of the cell, furious.

All four of Anne's alleged lovers had been proven innocent to his mind, which meant that Anne herself was innocent.

She had been framed, in _his_ name, because men he believed to be his trusted servants thought that it was what _he_ wanted.

They believed that he was cruel enough to want to see an innocent woman brought to the scaffold because he wanted to be free of his marriage, that he was prepared to see murder done because he did not want to have to endure the trouble and the delay involved in annulling their marriage, or the expense of continuing to provide for his cast-off wife appropriately. His own subjects decried him for allowing Anne to be tried and condemned and he knew now that they were right to do so.

 _They_ had seen that justice was not being done but _he_ had almost allowed the executions to proceed, damning his soul by allowing murder to be committed in his name.

He would put a stop to this perversion of justice right now!

"Your Majesty!" Behind him, he could hear Cromwell calling out to him and hear his rapid footsteps. "Your Majesty, I beg of you, don't act rashly!"

"Rashly?" Henry whirled on the other man, furious. "I have just learned that the Queen has been condemned to death for a crime that she did not commit, that four men were unjustly condemned with her – though Brereton has only himself to blame for that – and you dare to call me rash? What is it that you expect me to do, Master Cromwell? Ignore what I have heard? Allow the executions to proceed?"

"Yes." Cromwell said firmly, willing Henry to see reason.

Stunned, Henry gaped at him for a moment, not believing what he had just heard him say. "I should order _your_ execution for this!"

"Order it, if that is Your Majesty's will, but I beg you, do not interfere with the Queen's execution, or those of the men convicted with her. For the sake of the country, and of Your Majesty, you must make a true marriage and father a son and heir!" Seeing that Henry was ready to object, to point out that this would not prevent him from setting Anne aside and remarrying, even if waiting for an annulment would take time, time that he perhaps could not afford to take, he hastened on. "If you free the Queen and the men from the Tower, if you proclaim her innocence of the charges laid against her, then you will never be free of her." He stated flatly. "You will never be able to make Mistress Seymour your new wife and Queen."

"I can annul…"

"You won't be able to, Your Majesty. The people would never accept it, not after this." Cromwell told him earnestly, needing Henry to listen to what he was saying and to know that it was true. "It would have been different before the Queen was arrested but if she is exonerated now, the people will expect you to take her back as your wife. If you try to annul the marriage in the future, it will be assumed that this is merely another attempt to rid yourself of her since you could not have her executed. No matter what grounds you use, no matter how many bishops and lawyers agree that your marriage is void, your people will not accept their verdict – not even if you can induce Queen Anne to agree to it herself, and she certainly will not cooperate, not if she wishes for her own child to be heir to the throne." He knew that in his heart; the majority of the English people may have been reluctant to accept Anne as their Queen but, in the aftermath of this debacle, they would flatly refuse to accept anybody else. If Henry tried to discard her, there was a very real risk that there would be an uprising that would topple him from the throne, uprooting the Tudor dynasty and bringing about a civil war that would be the ruin of the country. "They will reject Mistress Seymour utterly and, when she bears you a son, they will call him a bastard. There won't be a man in England willing to swear fealty to him as Prince or as King."

Despite himself, Henry paused at Cromwell's words, uncomfortably aware of the fact that there was a great deal of truth to them. If the number of people who grumbled over Anne being tried was any indication, they _would_ expect her to restored as his Queen and for her to retain that position for the rest of her life if he proclaimed her innocence, as justice demanded of him.

He would be saying goodbye to any hope he had of a marriage to Jane.

But the alternative was murder…

The alternative was _Anne's_ murder…

"You said it yourself, Your Majesty," Cromwell pressed, sensing Henry wavering and pressing his case. "God will not grant you male issue by Queen Anne. If you proclaim her innocence, then you are tying yourself to her for the rest of your life. If she fails to give you a son, then you will have no lawful heir but the Princess Elizabeth… and her claim will always be challenged by the supporters of the Lady Mary. You _need_ to be able to have a son and heir, Your Majesty, one whose rights can never be questioned or challenged. It could mean civil war if you die and leave only your daughters as potential heirs to your throne. The country could be torn apart between them, and if the Emperor seeks to champion the rights of the Lady Mary, he will become involved, as will the King of France should the Princess Elizabeth be married to his son. It would be England's ruin. What is the life of one woman compared to that? Your chief duty as King is to protect your subjects."

Henry couldn't deny that Cromwell might be right about this. If he declared Anne to be innocent, what excuse could he offer for refusing to take her back as his wife and restoring her to her position as his Queen? Whatever reason he cited as grounds for annulling their marriage, it would be seen as nothing more than a convenient excuse, one that would allow him to discard her since he could not kill her.

He knew that if he was an ordinary common Englishman, watching what was happening with the royal family, he would expect the King to take back his wife and to make amends with her, and with the men who were unjustly condemned and who had come so close to losing their lives for crimes they had not committed. If he heard later that the King sought to put the Queen away, he knew that he would feel indignant at the very thought, that he would assume that this was merely another attempt by his sovereign to set aside an innocent wife and that he would be angry to learn of it. If, God forbid, the Queen suddenly took ill and died, he might even suspect that there was foul play involved.

If he wanted his freedom, if he wanted to be able to marry Jane or any other woman, Anne's life would be the price he would have to pay. There would be no other way around it.

If he proclaimed her to be innocent, he would be throwing away his chance to marry Jane and to have sons with her. He would be making it more difficult for him to ever be able to form a lasting friendship with the Emperor, who was bound to be dismayed by the thought of swallowing his pride and acknowledging Anne as England's Queen. He would be tying himself to a woman he had wanted to be rid of, with a knot that he would not be able to sever.

Or he could let her die.

He could let her die and he would be free. He could marry Jane, he could father a son – many sons! – and he could make peace with the Emperor, allying with him against King Francis.

The choice was not an easy one but, even so, he knew that there was only one decision he could make.


	4. Chapter 4

**_17th May 1536_ **

Lady Kingston was slightly plump, with a face that looked stern in repose, with a severity that never entirely left her expression, even when she was smiling, but Anne was still very glad to see her. The other woman, who had made her home within the precincts of the Tower for over a decade, since her husband was first appointed to the position of Constable, had taken charge of her as soon as Master Kingston conducted her to his house, curtseying deeply as she explained that she would tend to her needs and see to it that she had all that she required.

Anne had followed her with uncharacteristic meekness, stunned by what was happening and feeling as though she might, at any moment, wake up in either her apartment at the palace and realize that this had all been some strange, unpleasant dream, perhaps the product of a fanciful imagination and too much strain over the past months, since she miscarried her boy, or else in the chamber used as her prison, with this faint hope of a reprieve snatched away from her.

The sky was still dark when Master Kingston came to the chamber in which she had been confined for the past two weeks, bowing deeply when he asked that she dress as quickly as possible and accompany him – and it was a true request, not just a command couched as one for the sake of politeness and deference to her rank as Queen. Deciding against asking what was happening, she merely nodded comprehension, waiting until the Constable had excused himself before allowing her maids to help her dress in a dove grey gown and comb her hair into a neat twist. Once she was dressed, one of the maids let Master Kingston know that she was ready and he offered Anne his arm to escort her out of the room, explaining that he was bringing her to his own house for the moment.

When he explained that the executions had been cancelled, that a second investigation into the allegations made against her had been proven to be false and that the King had ordered that she was to be released, Anne was half-inclined to think that it was a cruel joke, a way for her enemies to give her false hope and to make the shock of learning that she really was going to die all the more painful but Kingston's expression was sincere, his tone gentle as he explained it.

"The King investigated the matter personally, Your Majesty." Kingston had explained to her as he escorted her across the Tower Green to his house. "He re-examined the evidence and questioned the witnesses and he came to the conclusion that the charges against you were false."

Was she supposed to be grateful for this? Anne wondered, as Lady Kingston and her maids helped her into a tub of steaming water, washing her hair and perfuming her skin with scented oils.

If Henry had been willing to speak to her when this started, to listen to her when she appealed to him to give her a chance, for Elizabeth's sake, then she could have assured him that the charges alleged against her were completely false and that he had no reason to doubt her fidelity. They would not have needed to endure any of this. He had not listened to her then, he had not wanted to.

She knew that it must have suited his purposes very well when he first heard the rumours about her relationships with some of the men of the court. If he persuaded himself that she was guilty of adultery, then he could send her to her death as a traitor, marry that Seymour wench and make the brats she bore him his heirs. Henry knew this and so he had been unwilling to listen to her when she pleaded with him to. He didn't want to allow her the chance to persuade him of her innocence because it would mean that he would not be able to condemn her and he would not be able to marry Mistress Seymour. He had stood by and allowed her to be arrested, locked up like a criminal, subjected to an unjust trial and sentenced to death, all for that wench's sake. Jane Seymour and her family had known well how to play Henry and they were determined to hold out until they could put that stupid slut on the throne, regardless of the cost. And Henry was willing to go along with it.

Was she now supposed to be thankful to him for the fact that conscience had finally awoken, at the eleventh hour, preventing him from allowing her to die?

He should never have allowed it to happen in the first place!

"Close your eyes, Your Majesty." Lady Kingston instructed, waiting until Anne had complied with her instruction before pouring a jug of warm, clear water over her hair, rinsing out the soap. Her personal maid, pressed into service to help prepare Anne, was holding a linen towel in front of the fire to warm it before holding it out to Anne, to wrap her in it as soon as she stood up.

Once Anne was bathed and dry, Lady Kingston and the maids helped her into a clean shift, petticoat and kirtle before helping her into a fresh gown that Lady Kingston had sent for, one of plain black silk. When she was dressed, one of the maids combed out her hair, so that it could dry in front of the fire.

"I'll send for some bread, meat and fruit for you to break your fast." Lady Kingston told her with a deep curtsey, once she had Anne settled in a chair in front of the fire. "I'm sure that you must be hungry, Your Majesty. The King is to be here at noon to meet you." She explained. "He will accompany you back to the palace."

"What about my brother?" Anne asked anxiously, worried about the fates of the men who had been accused of being her lovers. If it was known now that they were innocent, at least they would not be executed, but she could only imagine what the past couple of weeks had been like for them. They would not have been afforded the same comforts that she was. "And my father?" Surely nobody could fault her if she enquired after her relatives, although she was half-afraid that if she mentioned the others, it might be construed as evidence against her, that she cared for them more than she should.

It might sound absurd, but it was no more absurd than the original charges laid against her were.

"My lord has brought them from the Tower to this house, Your Majesty, along with the other gentlemen who were arrested with you, and who were falsely convicted." Lady Kingston responded, deciding against mentioning that Mark Smeaton had not been brought to the house with the others. There was a crowd gathered outside the Tower already and there would be many more people there by noon, when the time came for the prisoners to be released. The last thing the King and his Privy Council wanted was for anybody to see the state that the musician was in, so he was to be cared for by physicians until he was stronger, and then quietly set free, with as little fuss as possible, in the hopes that it would go unnoticed. "They will all be released at noon, when you are."

"Thank God!" Anne said quietly, accepting a cup of ale from one of the maids and sipping it slowly, staring into the heart of the fire, only half-aware of the movements of Lady Kingston and the maids as they tended to her.

In a few hours, she would be set free... but what would happen then?

Henry might have decided that he could not allow her to be killed but Anne doubted that he would be happy to be obliged to take her back, not when he had made up his mind to be rid of her and to move on with another woman. He had wanted to get rid of her so that he could marry Jane.

How were they supposed to move past that?

* * *

Even though he had been warned to expect a crowd outside the Tower, Henry had not anticipated that there would be so many people there. As the royal barge glided down the river, he could see that there were people lining up the banks on either side, with the crowds growing thicker as he came closer to the Tower.

When he went out among his people, he was accustomed to seeing smiles of welcome on their faces, with parents lifting little children onto their shoulders so that they might see their King as he passed. He was accustomed to hearing cheers of welcome, or at the very least murmurs of awe and admiration for himself and for the grand state in which he travelled.

Today, however, he saw none of that.

Today, the people watched his approach with stony, unfriendly eyes and he could hear their disapproving mutterings, could hear the sour comments that it was a pity that he had not realized before now that his poor Queen was innocent of wrongdoing and that she would never have betrayed him, before he had put her through the pain and humiliation of a trial and before she had endured the horror of being sentenced to death and left to await execution.

Cromwell had been summarily stripped of his office as Lord Chancellor the previous night. He was confined to his quarters for the time being and Henry had every intention of ordering the man's arrest and having him sent to the Tower, charged with trying to bring about the death of the Queen of England by falsely accusing her and manufacturing evidence against her, but he rather regretted that he could not benefit from his former chancellor's advice right now.

Cromwell would have known how best to tackle the issue of the crowds and what he ought to do in order to ensure that they would cease to think of him as the villain.

Sir Thomas Audley, temporarily pressed into service as acting Lord Chancellor, until a suitable replacement for Cromwell could be found, had hit on the idea that it would be best if the King and Queen demonstrate a united front for the people. Instead of staying at Whitehall while Anne was brought back to court, Henry should be the one to travel to the Tower to meet her, so that he might be seen to conduct her away from prison and back to her home. Audley advocated that the best possible course of action would be for Henry to show himself as Anne's fellow victim, not as her accuser or as the man who might have sent her to her death.

The King had been grieved to learn of the Queen's infidelity and, though it broke his heart to imagine that she might be capable of such evil, he had had no choice but to order an investigation into the matter, to grant him peace of mind and to ensure that there was no possible chance that the Queen might be guilty, that she might be placing the royal succession itself in jeopardy with her behaviour. When he learned of her guilt, he was filled with profound sorrow... but he had never suspected that his own trusted councillors might have taken advantage of the accusations made against the Queen in order that they might be rid of her. He had believed the investigation and the trials to be scrupulously fair and completely impartial and he was horrified and dismayed to learn that this was not the case. As soon as he knew that the Queen had been falsely accused and unjustly condemned, he immediately ordered the execution stopped. He was now going to free her from imprisonment and, when the time came, he would see to it that those who had dared to falsely accuse her were punished for their crimes.

He was relieved and overjoyed that his wife had been found to be innocent, and he was deeply repentant for ever having doubted her.

When Audley had explained his strategy, Henry thought it a very clever one, and he pacified his conscience with the thought that it was true... for the most part. He had believed Anne to be guilty, he had never suspected that Cromwell would ever dare to fabricate evidence against her and he was relieved to know that she had never truly betrayed him... even if that did mean that he would never be able to marry Jane.

He heard her name mentioned as his barge glided past, heard the hissed whispers speculating about where Mistress Seymour was and how she must feel now that the Queen's innocence had become public knowledge and she knew that she could no longer cherish any hope of replacing her.

He would have to deal with Jane too, and her family.

He had sent a message to them last night, ordering Jane, her father and her brothers to come to court at once. They would be there by the time he returned to Whitehall with Anne, if they were not there already, but he did not know yet what he was going to do about them but one thing he knew that he would never be able to do would be to make Jane his wife.

If his people knew what he had given up, then they would surely appreciate the sacrifice that he had made by proclaiming Anne's innocence. Even if it was the right thing for him to do, the only thing his conscience would allow him to do, he was still going to pay a high price for doing it. He had given up his chance at making a new marriage, perhaps even his chance at fathering a son. They should appreciate what he had done for Anne.

So should she.

* * *

Her father looked years older than he had when she last saw him, before they were arrested and brought to the Tower. His period of imprisonment had not been kind to him and, even though he, like the rest of the men, was given a chance to wash and to change into fresh clothes, it was obvious that his time in the Tower had taken its toll on him.

Anne was astonished when his first action upon seeing her was to pull her into a tight hug, with a quiet, heart-felt "Thank God!"

She couldn't remember him ever hugging her like that since she was a little girl.

"Are you alright?" Boleyn quizzed his daughter, holding her at arm's length and scrutinizing her face as though he could read from her expression how the past couple of weeks had affected her. For two weeks in the Tower he had tasted the bitterness of total defeat, knowing that he was likely to lose everything that he had gained through his daughter and more. He might not have been charged with any crime but he knew better than to think that when all of this was over, he would be allowed to return to court and to enjoy the benefits of the offices he had been awarded when the King loved Anne, and to continue to enjoy the King's trust and favour. When he was freed... if he was freed, disgrace and banishment would be his lot.

He would have to retreat to Hever, never again showing his face at court, he would lose the significant portion of his income that he derived from his court offices and royal stewardships and he would be left childless. He had disowned Mary when she made her ill-considered second marriage and he had fully expected to hear that Anne and George were to be executed... and they would have died, in part, because of him.

He was the one who pressed Anne to capture the King's attention and who had urged her to aim for no less a prize than the Queen's crown once it became apparent that the King wanted more than to simply make her another mistress.

If he had not done that, if he had not wanted to use his younger daughter to secure advantage for himself, then Anne and George would never have been arrested or sentenced to death.

As relieved and grateful as he was for this reprieve, he could not forget how close a call it had been, or that he bore some of the responsibility for what happened.

"I'm alright, Papa." Anne assured him, feeling absurdly grateful for his strong arms around her, remembering when she was a little girl and her father had lifted her in his arms, swinging her around and hugging her close. There was part of her, a large part, that would have loved nothing more than to be able to return to her childhood at Hever, before she had ever imagined going to court and living in close proximity to royalty, a time when her Papa was there to play with her and to keep her safe.

"Thank God." Boleyn said again, kissing his daughter's cheek before releasing her and feeling a stab of guilt at how pale and drawn her face was. The terror of the last fortnight had left its mark and he suspected that it might be quite some time before Anne recovered from her experience, if she was ever able to fully put it behind her. He knew that he would not soon forget how it had felt to hear that he was under arrest, and then to be subjected to relentless questioning at the hands of Master Cromwell – a man who seemed to be completely ungrateful for all of the help that the Boleyn family had given him for his own rise to power; he was perfectly willing to lead the investigation that would condemn Anne to death, despite the fact that, but for her, he would still be a humble clerk, one who would not have survived the fall of his former patron unscathed, much less risen as high as he did.

He hadn't spoken in Anne's defence.

He suspected that even Master Cromwell was surprised that he made no attempt to defend his daughter or to argue that Anne would never have dreamed of betraying the King, as it was suggested that she had – although Boleyn could not deny that if the idea had occurred to him, he might have considered the idea of hinting that Anne should take a lover in order to conceive the son that would secure her position, as it seemed that the King might have difficulty siring strong sons, provided that they could find somebody suitable, somebody who could be trusted to keep his mouth shut, no matter what – but he had known better than to speak in Anne's defence.

If he had tried to argue that Anne was innocent, he was sure that it would not be long before he found himself being charged as her accomplice, accused of being the pander who had encouraged Anne in her infidelities and helped her lovers to enter her chamber undetected, hoping that one of them would be able to sire a grandson for him, a healthy baby boy that Anne could pass off as the King's child and as the rightful Prince of Wales. If he had tried to argue that Anne was innocent, he would have joined her on the scaffold.

He had no doubt of that.

The only way to save his own life was to turn on her, to condemn her and to hope that it would be enough, that he could ensure that Cromwell and the King knew that, if he was freed, he would not seek to champion Anne's cause, declaring her to be innocent and accusing the King of murdering her. They would never take that chance. They would rather keep him in the Tower for the rest of his life, or even to cut his life short, rather than allowing him to do that.

_"I condemn them utterly. Utterly. All those men, whatever their rank or station who... where I... where I... Whatever their rank or station who... deceived the King and slipped between the sheets with his lawful wife." He hadn't used her name; Anne couldn't be his daughter, he couldn't refer to her by name, he had to think of her only as the King's wife and to give the same answer that he would have given if the Queen of England had had no connection to him. despite his efforts to remain calm and collected, his tongue faltered as he spoke. "I cond... Utterly! For such awful adultery, there should be only one punishment."_

_With those words he had given his unspoken consent to Anne's death – and he had not known then that it was not just his youngest daughter who stood accused but his only son as well. He had shown himself to side with the King in this matter._

_He couldn't afford for them to think that he sided with Anne._

Anne relaxed in her father's embrace for a moment before extracting herself from his arms, biting her lower lip to make sure that she did not shed a tear. Her father's smile was encouraging as he gave her a gentle push to stand at the forefront of the group, ready and waiting for the moment when Henry's barge would arrive, signalling that it was time for them to be released. Of the other men present, only Wyatt would meet her eyes. He gave her a wry half-smile, his eyes betraying his relief and pleasure at the fact that she had been released. He hadn't been charged, which was rather ironic as Anne knew that he was likely to be the only man arrested who even _wanted_ to be her lover. Of the other men, not even George would look in her direction.

She couldn't see Mark.

Surely he too would be freed!

"Yes, Your Majesty, Master Smeaton will be freed." Master Kingston told her placatingly when she demanded to know why he was not present, afraid that she might cause a scene if he did not reassure her that there was no need for her to be concerned about the musician's fate. Under the circumstances, this was the last thing they needed, not when the crowd was gathered around the Tower and might hear her words if she spoke too loudly. "But not just yet."

"They tortured him, Anne." George told her flatly, still studiously avoiding her gaze. His tone was sharp with anger and bitterness as he spoke. "I doubt that he's fit to be seen."

"Is that true?" Anne demanded of Kingston, horrified at the thought. She should have known that Mark, who had been a friend to her, would never have made a false confession that would condemn her unless he was forced to do so. She shut her eyes, trying to block out the pictures her mind conjured of the kind of torments that must have been inflicted on the gentle musician before he could be induced to speak, the agony that he would have endured because of _her_.

"I'm afraid so, Your Majesty." Kingston responded regretfully. "But I promise you that he will be comfortably housed, well-fed and cared for and given the best medical attention, in order to heal his injuries."

George snorted derisively but he did not say anything. They all knew that if Mark had been tortured, the injuries that had been inflicted on him were not ones that were likely to be easily healed, if they could be fully healed at all, without him having to point out that fact.

The heavy wooden gates of the Tower were shut but they could still hear the crowd outside.

Anne hadn't thought that she would ever hear the people calling out for her as Queen rather than concubine, calling on God to bless her. The shouting of the crowd became louder, taking on a more disapproving edge and she guessed that Henry's barge had arrived.

When the gates opened, Henry was standing there, soberly clad in a black velvet suit and a heavy, fur-lined cloak. He was flanked by a couple of lords and followed by a company of guards, who held back the crowds, preventing them from surging forward as he walked through the path that had been hastily cleared for him, through the gates and into the Tower Green.

Henry refused to look around him, knowing that whether he looked to the left or to the right, he would see the angry faces of a crowd that was decidedly hostile to him, disgusted with him for allowing Anne to be arrested and put on trial for a crime she had not committed. He kept his eyes fixed directly ahead of him as he walked, doing his best to tune out the crowd's disapproval, and he strode towards the small group of people awaiting him, making a bee-line for Anne. When he reached his wife, he bowed slightly, reaching out to take her hand and bring it to his lips before leaning forward to kiss her on both cheeks.

Anne allowed the ceremonious embrace but she did not respond to it, not showing the slightest hint of pleasure at his presence, or even relief at the fact that she was to be released from captivity, saved from death at the last minute. Her skin was pale and cool to the touch.

"My Queen," he greeted her courteously, offering his arm as he knew he was expected to.

Anne dipped a curtsey, as distant as a stranger. "Your Majesty." As conscious of the watching crowd as he was and knowing that they were expected to make a show of unity for their sake, she allowed him to tuck her hand through his arm as he turned to look at the other men.

"Masters, you are all free, by order of your King." Henry declared, sounding as magnanimous as he would have if he had been ordering the release of men who were guilty of some crime, out of his mercy, instead of granting innocent men the freedom that they should never have lost in the first place. The five men standing in front of him bowed in acknowledgement of this but none of them said a word and Henry felt awkward and uncomfortable standing there in front of them, knowing what they must all be thinking of him, how angry they must be over how close they had come to being executed. He forced himself to smile as he turned to look at Anne, remembering what Audley had told him about the importance of showing himself to be a relieved and repentant husband. "Come, my dear, it is past time that you were home."

With the other men following, Henry led Anne towards the gates and the waiting royal barge, quickening his step as much as he could without being obvious about it, anxious to be able to get away from the crowd and safely back to the palace, safe from the angry, accusing eyes. As he walked, he could hear the people muttering, either sympathetically and encouragingly if they spoke of Anne, or accusingly if they were looking in his direction.

"It's alright now, love, you're safe."

"Shame on him for treating you the way he did!"

"God save the Queen!"

"He should have known that you'd never do it!"

"Poor lady – look how thin she is!"

"She's as pale as a ghost and no wonder, after being locked up in this place."

Despite himself, Henry found himself looking at Anne when he heard the last comments, scanning her figure anxiously and wondering if she had lost weight during her time in the Tower, despite the orders given to ensure that she was well cared for during her period of imprisonment. Her face was as white as a sheet and her eyes looked larger than ever in her face, with faint shadows under them. In the black gown she wore, she looked thin but he did not think that she had lost much weight. He would have been lying if he said that there was no sign of the difficulties she had endured in the Tower, however.

They had left their mark on her and he could not deny it.

He steered her towards the gates and, as they crossed the threshold, he felt droplets of water caress his face as a light rain shower began to fall. He was amazed to hear a soft chuckle from Anne, although he had no idea what it was she found so amusing.

For Anne, the shower of rain brought to mind the day she was arrested when, terrified about what was going to happen to her, she lost control over her tongue and heard herself babbling all kinds of pleas and threats... among which was the prophecy that there would be no rain until she was set free. Now, the moment she stepped out of the Tower, the rain began to fall, proving her prediction correct. She glanced back at Master Kingston, seeing from the amazed expression on his face that he was also thinking of her words and, despite herself, she smiled.

She felt something heavy draped around her shoulders and registered that Henry had tucked his cloak around her, although she couldn't tell whether the gesture was for her benefit or for the benefit of the crowd. Either way, the cloak felt impossibly heavy around her shoulders, weighing her down as well as guarding her from the rain. Her skin prickled, as though it could not bear to be in such close proximity to an item of Henry's clothing.

As she was tugged in the direction of the barge, she stopped in her tracks, drawing herself up to her full height and managing to make herself look regal, despite her damp hair and clothes and the oversized cloak she had been bundled in. When she addressed the crowd, she spoke only two words; "Thank you."

It seemed like so little to say in response to their support, the support that she had never thought they would give her. They believed that she was innocent and that was more than many people had been prepared to do. They had known that she was wrongly accused and they cried out against her accusers over it, calling upon them to allow her justice.

Perhaps it had been his people's shouting that had prompted Henry to reconsider the idea of allowing her to be murdered, that had awoken his sleeping conscience, which refused to allow him to see her put to death for a crime she had not committed in order to enable him to marry Mistress Seymour.

Perhaps she owed them her life.

She was going to see to it that they never had cause to regret that they had spoken in her favour. She was going to be the best Queen that England had ever had, and she would see to it that Elizabeth would feel the same way when the time came for her to rule. She had distributed charity before but now she would redouble her efforts, committing more time and more resources to helping her poorest subjects. There were so many people in England who were poor and hungry and she was going to do everything in her power to alleviate their suffering. She would give them every reason to be glad that they had cried out in support of her during her time of need.

Until then, all she could do was thank them.

Henry's arm was strong as he guided her towards the royal barge, gaily bedecked with the royal standard, lifting her onto it and conducting her towards the cushioned chair made ready for her before sitting down himself, giving the order to the oarsmen to set sail.

The barge began to glide away and they left the Tower behind.

* * *

Anne shrugged off his cloak as soon as they were inside the palace, allowing a servant to take it from her without a word and then turning to walk away.

"Wait!" Henry called out to her instinctively, not wanting her to leave like that. She stopped in her tracks, turning to look at him and waiting silently for him to speak. He felt awkward, unsure what to say to her and blurted the first thing that came to mind. "We're going to have a banquet tonight – in your honour." He told her, feeling like biting his tongue as soon as he said it. As skilled as the palace cooks were, they would require more notice than this if they were expected to provide a proper banquet, with the fantastic array of food and the intricate subtleties that were expected of a royal celebration. However, he had said it and he could not unsay it so he soldiered on determinedly. "To celebrate your return... and the fact that we've found out that you are innocent. We should celebrate." He finished lamely, looking at Anne and hoping for some sign of pleasure, or any emotion but seeing nothing.

Her face was almost expressionless as she returned his gaze and, when she spoke, her voice was calm. "Are you commanding my attendance, Your Majesty?" She asked quietly, her tone almost entirely emotionless.

"No, no, no." Henry said hastily, shaking his head vehemently. "It's not an order, Anne, it's a request – an invitation, if you like. You don't have to come but I'd like you to and..."

"Then I decline the invitation." Anne cut him off, her voice quiet but determined.

"But..."

"I don't need to celebrate finding out that I was innocent – I've known that all along." Anne pointed out coldly, turning again and beginning to walk away.

"Anne!" Henry caught her by the hand but she pulled away from him as though his touch burned her flesh, backing away in haste.

"Don't touch me!" She all but screamed the words, her eyes bright with distress and her breathing growing shallow and rapid. "Don't you dare touch me!"

Before he could say a word, or even register what she had said, she was gone, running away from him and through the maze of corridors in the direction of her own apartments. Henry's first inclination was to run after her but he had no idea what he should say when he caught up with her, or if there was even anything that he could say.

So he let her go.

Anne was aware that her rapid pace was attracting attention as she hastened through the corridors, with courtiers hastily backing out of her way in order to let her pass, but even though she knew that she ought to slow down, even though she knew that it was hardly seemly for the Queen of England to be seen tearing through the palace like a madwoman, her feet seemed very reluctant to obey her when she ordered them to slow to a more seemly pace.

She had to get to her own apartment and she had to get there as soon as possible.

With great effort, she managed to slow her pace somewhat, enabling her to make the remainder of her journey in a more dignified manner, as her rank demanded, but she couldn't slow the beating of her heart. It thudded rapidly in her chest, as though it might leap from her body, and she felt her hands tremble, clenching her fists in order to hide that from the courtiers she passed in the corridors, not wanting any of them to see how upset she was, knowing that if she allowed one person to see it, her distress was likely to become public knowledge within the hour.

Few people met her eyes as she walked through the corridors. She could imagine that at least some of the people she passed were disappointed to see her here now, instead of in the Tower awaiting the hour of her death. She would have had to be a fool to be unaware of the fact that she had enemies at court, far more enemies than she had friends, and she had never been a fool.

There would be many who would have been pleased when they learned of her arrest and her disgrace, people who were eager to see her cast down and replaced with another woman, people who would have been glad to see her gone, even if they knew that she was being wrongly accused and condemned to death for a crime she had not committed; it would not matter to them, as long as it meant that she would soon be gone.

It was painful to know how hated she was.

The corridors seemed to stretch for miles before she finally reached her apartment but, if she had thought that she would be able to find a place of refuge there, a place where she could forget all about everything that had happened over the past weeks and months and pretend, even for a little while, that she was still the same, happy woman who had first taken up residence in this apartment three years ago, she was doomed to disappointment.

Three years ago, she had been newly married to Henry, with their child quickened in her womb. She was due to be crowned Queen within a matter of weeks and confidently expected to be delivered of a son in the autumn, a strong, handsome boy who resembled his father and who would one day be a King that all of England would be proud to own. She was happy then and her future seemed to be a truly golden one.

Today, she was returning from the Tower of London, where she had been kept as a prisoner for over a fortnight. She had been accused of terrible crimes, afforded no true opportunity to defend herself against the unjust charges laid against her and she had been sentenced to death, to be burned or beheaded at the King – her _husband's_ – pleasure. She had come so close to being executed, to having her head struck from her body by the headsman's axe or, worse still, to having the flesh seared from her bones by cruel flames as she died in one of the most painful ways she could imagine.

And it would have been _Henry_ who signed her death warrant.

Today, she entered her apartment to find her ladies bustling too and fro, unpacking trunks and hastily setting out her belongings, which must have all been packed away as soon as she was arrested. They were working as fast as they could, brushing out her gowns and hanging them up in the carved oak wardrobe where they belonged, and laying the lace cloths she had embroidered over some of the tables before setting out her favourite ornaments but, even so, the room still looked barer than Anne had seen it since the day when Henry first escorted her there. It was bare then because when Katherine was ordered to leave, any of her belonging that she had not brought with her into exile were packed away, as Anne had wanted to keep nothing of her predecessor's there, but it had not taken long for her and her household to make the rooms her own.

Her ladies were so absorbed with their task, so determined to unpack as quickly as possible that it took them a moment to register that she was standing there and, when they realized it, they left their tasks aside for a moment, curtseying deeply.

"Your Majesty." Mistress Gainsford was the first of them to dare to speak and even she looked ill at ease as she spoke. "Welcome back, Your Majesty."

Anne merely nodded in response, gesturing for them to rise and scanning their faces, noticing at once that neither Nan nor Madge were present. "Where is Lady Shelton? And Mistress Saville?" She asked, even though she knew the answer to her question without needing to be told. Madge was her cousin and Nan had been with her since long before she became Queen, back when she was simply Lady Anne and her position was still quite uncertain, with nobody able to predict whether she would one day wear the Queen's crown or whether she was destined to be set aside and left to fade into obscurity.

They must have been deemed to be too close to her for them to be allowed to stay and serve the woman who was expected to be the new Queen... which meant that every other lady who was still there was one who had been willing to stay and serve Mistress Seymour when she married Henry, despite the fact that their mistress was to be murdered in order to make room for the wench.

Out of all of the ladies of Anne's household, only two of them were deemed to be too loyal to her for them to be allowed to stay and be given places in Jane's household.

Two!

At the back of her mind, Anne knew that she was being unfair; her ladies would all have been under the control of their families, who were unlikely to be overly sympathetic if they expressed a desire to return to their homes rather than staying at court to serve Jane. Their fathers and brothers would want them to remain at court, where they could find husbands and be close to the royal circle instead of allowing them to return to country manors. Had Madge and Nan been allowed the opportunity to remain, it was very likely that their families would have pressed them to take advantage of the offer, or even ordered them to do so, whether they wanted to or not, but it still hurt to see that so many were willing to stay, that so many were considered to be insufficiently fond of her, or loyal to her to prevent them from being welcomed by Jane.

She scanned the faces in front of her, recognizing two young women she did not know, although they did seem slightly familiar, and beckoning for them to step forward.

There was something different about these two; unlike the rest of the ladies, whose expressions betrayed awkwardness in her presence – which was understandable, under the circumstances – and relief that she was back, these two young women looked sullen and angry, as though they resented the fact that she was back, as though it was somehow an affront to them to see her standing there. Even before she asked Mistress Gainsford who they were, she had a sinking suspicion that she knew who they were and why they would look at her like that.

"These are Lady Elizabeth and Lady Dorothy Seymour." Mistress Gainsford introduced, bobbing another curtsey and regarding Anne warily, as though she expected her to lose her temper and begin to shout, to stamp her foot or perhaps even to throw things.

Anne was very tempted to do something like that but she reined in her temper, albeit with difficulty. "Seymour." Her lip curled in disgust as she spoke the name, as though it left a sour taste in her mouth. It almost did.

She might have known!

The Seymours certainly didn't waste any time.

She had still been alive and still technically the Queen when these two were appointed. They were undoubtedly given the positions as ladies-in-waiting as soon as Madge and Nan had been dismissed in order to make room for them so that, as soon as Jane married Henry, she would have her own kin – were they her sisters or her cousins? – appointed to her household, ready to serve her and to reap the benefits of royal association. Of course Jane would want to surround herself with members of her own family, and they would want to take advantage of her position in order that they could derive every possible benefit from it.

Now Anne was back and these two stupid girls did not seem to have realized that, although they were technically appointed as ladies-in-waiting while the title of Queen was still hers, their positions in the Queen's household were contingent on their relation wearing the crown.

They stared at her with wide, insolent eyes, meeting her gaze squarely instead of bowing their heads, as etiquette would have demanded. If the sour looks on their moon-like faces were any indication, they were furious with Anne for having returned and spoiled what she did not doubt was an ambitious plan to be the first ladies at court after Jane, the Queen's closest confidantes and the most sought-after maidens at court – did they honestly expect her to feel sorry that she had been spared an unjust execution and returned to be the ruin of their hopes?

She regarded them with a cool, appraising gaze for a few minutes, deciding that, based on their close resemblances to Jane, they were more likely to be her sisters than her cousins, before she finally spoke. "Leave." She said at last, her tone flat.

"My lady?" Elizabeth, the taller of the two asked, trying to sound innocent but betraying the insolence in her voice as she spoke.

"That's 'Your Majesty' to you, Mistress Seymour." Anne corrected, inwardly stiffening at this insulting and deliberate omission of her rightful title but keeping her temper under control, even though her hand practically itched to slap the insolent expression off the young woman's face. "You are both to leave this apartment immediately. You are dismissed from my household." She waved a hand in the direction of the door. "Leave."

The other girl, Dorothy, took a half-step in the direction of the door but her sister reached out to halt her movements, holding her chin high and meeting Anne's eyes defiantly.

"We were appointed as ladies-in-waiting by His Majesty the King, Your Majesty." Elizabeth Seymour stated smugly, her confidence absolute. If anything, she seemed to be enjoying the knowledge that the other ladies of Anne's household were scandalized that she would dare to address her in that manner. "The King granted us our positions and wished for us to serve as first among the ladies..."

"How nice for you." Anne said coldly. "The King appointed you and now the Queen is dismissing you."

"His Majesty has not indicated that he no longer wishes for us to hold these posts." Elizabeth Seymour maintained obstinately, unable to keep herself from scowling at Anne, indignant that she – the sister to the future Queen of England! – should be treated this way by anybody, even the present holder of that title. "We will not leave until His Majesty dismisses us."

"You will." Anne contradicted her, smiling sweetly and knowing that this would unnerve the wretched girl more than an outburst of temper ever could. "You will leave immediately because I will not have Seymours sullying my apartments – we are already going to have to scrub the place down after your wench of a sister was allowed to serve here – and because if you do not leave, I will give orders that you are to be thrown out... and you will not be leaving by the door." She added, nodding in the direction of the windows.

Dorothy Seymour gasped at the thinly-veiled threat and even Elizabeth looked doubtful, unsure whether or not Anne would dare to carry it out.

Anne waited a moment for them to begin to move before shrugging daintily. "As you wish." She turned to Mistress Gainsford. "Fetch the sentries, would you..."

She did not need to say any more than that.

Dorothy ran from the room as though she were being pursued by a wild beast and Elizabeth quickly followed after her.

Anne heard a giggle from one of her other ladies, quickly smothered, and she felt a smile tugging at the corners of her own mouth. There was something very satisfying about being able to achieve a victory over the Seymours, even if that victory was a relatively small one.

However, her joy was quickly dampened as she took in her surroundings, together with the fact that the two Seymour girls had been allowed to be present in her apartment, appointed to the Queen's household in readiness for Jane Seymour taking up the role.

Her things had been packed away because it was assumed that her successor would not want to have reminders of her existence and her time as wife and Queen, and the two Seymour girls were appointed as ladies-in-waiting in order to please the woman who was assumed would be Queen before the month was out.

Anne had not been expected to return.

She had not been expected to be alive at the end of the week.


	5. Chapter 5

**_17th May 1536_ **

"She dismissed us like a pair of serving wenches. And she was so rude about it! You should have heard her, Janey!" Elizabeth Seymour grumbled bitterly to her older sister, a scowl creasing her broad face and twisting her mouth into an unattractive grimace.

Once they ran from Anne's apartments, angry and embarrassed about the way they were dismissed, she and Dorothy made their way to the apartments that Cromwell had turned over to their brother Edward's use as soon as it became apparent that the King desired Jane and wished to pay court to her and, as indignant as she was over the way Anne had dared to speak to her, she was soothed somewhat by the sight of the large, beautifully appointed suite of rooms, a tangible sign of how far the Seymours had come over the past few months. The apartments were grander by far than those that a family of their station would normally be allotted at court, but they were not as fine as the ones that Elizabeth confidently expected they would soon be occupying. A cynical person would have thought that the fact that these rooms were connected to the King's apartments by a private gallery indicated that the King intended to make Jane his mistress – if he had not done so already – but the Seymours knew better.

The King had pledged never to see Jane, except when one or more of her relatives was present to act as a chaperone to protect her from gossip and to prove that he knew that she was an honourable maiden, and he had kept his promise, ensuring that no slur could be cast on Jane's name. Nobody at court could assume that they were lovers, and the shrewder courtiers knew that the King did not want them to be. He did not want just another mistress; if he did, there were dozens, if not hundreds of women who would have been only too happy to satisfy him in that respect, making no demands on him. He wanted a Queen, a _proper_ Queen, and, as soon as he was rid of Queen Anne, he meant to have one and he meant for Jane to be that Queen.

Jane frowned at her sister's account of Anne's dismissal, an account Bess regaled her with as soon as she entered the apartment, before she had even had a chance to change out of her travelling clothes, but she firmly reminded herself that she should be charitable, even to Anne. "It was a terrible experience for her, Bess, I am sure of that." She reminded her sister, shuddering inwardly at the thought of what it would be like to find oneself locked in the Tower, sentenced to execution for a crime she had not committed and to know that the hour of her death was drawing nearer and nearer… she might not have liked Anne but she had to acknowledge that the other woman deserved some sympathy for her ordeal. "I'm sure that she was very frightened – although that is no excuse for being so rude." Even sympathy had its limits and Anne was pushing them.

Although Jane had been living at home for several years now, she had served Queen Katherine briefly as a maid of honour while the King was courting Lady Anne, with his intention to make her his Queen one day quickly becoming public knowledge, and she could not help but compare the behaviour of the two women, and Anne's certainly seemed to be lacking.

Queen Katherine had always stoically accepted the fact that her husband chose some of his mistresses from amongst her attendants, ladies who should have been loyal to her above all others. Nobody who lived close to her was foolish enough to believe that it had not caused her pain when, as she began to mature, the King forsook her bed and turned his attentions to other, younger women, favouring their company over that of his wife, but she had never allowed anybody to see her weep or even frown, carefully shielding her pain from view. Although the King's mistresses often continued to serve her as ladies-in-waiting, she would never have dreamed of singling them out for different treatment or more unpleasant tasks, much less to embarrass them or to signal to the others that she knew of their relationships with her husband. She always behaved as though there was no difference between them and the other ladies, and she would never have dreamed of dismissing one of them from her household as Anne had dismissed Bess and Dorothy.

She had no right to do that!

The King himself had granted Jane's sisters their positions in her household, something that she had been deeply thankful for when the message came to Wolf Hall that the two younger Seymour sisters were summoned to court to take up positions in Anne's household. As eagerly as she anticipated becoming Queen, Jane had had some concerns about the women who would be waiting on her when that time came, and whom she would be expected to have as her closest companions. Most of Anne's ladies had been with her for years, and even though Anne could be difficult, she was a good mistress to her attendants and most of those who served her seemed to be quite fond of her, one or two in particular.

The morning that Jane had first arrived to begin her duties in the Queen's household, she was uncomfortably conscious of the fact that all of her fellow ladies-in-waiting suspected why she had been appointed to the position, a much sought-after one that the daughters of far more exalted men than her father vied for, especially since the King, who usually left Anne to run her household and to choose her attendants as she saw fit, had personally ordered her appointment.

None of them believed that it was truly intended as a reward for her father's hospitality when he had entertained the King and the Duke of Suffolk for a night, as the King had indicated. They all assumed that Jane's appointment was a precursor to her becoming the King's mistress, that he sought to ensure that she would be close at hand when he wanted her company by appointing her to his wife's household, as had been done before, when Queen Katherine still reigned at court.

Nan Saville was the worst. She had been with Anne longer than any of her ladies, serving her as an attendant and companion since before the marriage, at a time when most of the ladies of the court cleaved to Queen Katherine, believing that she would emerge the victor and unable to imagine that the pope would ever grant an annulment of the marriage of the Emperor's aunt, or that the King would dare to proceed without it. It was natural, even admirable that Nan should be so devoted to her mistress but, even so, Jane had been deeply embarrassed when she first entered the Queen's apartments to begin her service there and saw the way Mistress Saville looked at her, aware of the fact that the other woman was studying her intently and that she was not in the least bit impressed by what she was seeing.

Her voice was cool and clipped as she gave Jane her instructions, employing the same kind of tone that she might have used to address a humble scullery maid and admonishing her not to address Anne until Anne had first spoken to her, as though she considered Jane to be a simpleton, a country bumpkin who was too stupid to know how she ought to behave at court.

She was so relieved to learn that Mistress Saville had been dismissed and, even though Lady Shelton had been kind to her, seeking her out and giving her back the King's locket after Anne ripped it from her neck in an unseemly display of jealousy and temper, she was also glad that she would not have Anne's cousin as one of her attendants, afraid that Lady Shelton might blame her for her cousin's fall from grace. It was so thoughtful of the King to help pave her way as Queen by removing the two women from the household that would shortly be hers in order to spare her discomfort, and for him to appoint her sisters, ensuring that she would have at least two among her ladies whom she could trust and freely confide in.

Bess and Dorothy were overjoyed when she told them that they were to join her at court.

Anne should not have dismissed them. Even if she had endured a frightening time in the Tower, even if it had not been pleasant for her to return to the palace and find that she had two new, unexpected ladies-in-waiting and to know that her days as Queen were numbered, that was no excuse for her to treat Jane's sisters so shabbily, or to speak so rudely about Jane herself.

She should have behaved with dignity, as Queen Katherine would have. Queen Katherine had not even dismissed Anne herself from her household, even after she became aware of the fact that the King intended to replace her with her own lady-in-waiting. To the best of Jane's knowledge, she had not even hinted to the King that Anne should be removed, for the sake of all concerned. Anne had left Katherine's household but she had left freely, on the King's instructions, and when she did, she was granted her own beautiful apartment and a small household of her own attendants, something that had scandalized the court at the time, as the King had never honoured any of his previous mistresses thus.

Jane could understand that Anne would not want her to be permitted to return to her duties in her household – and, if she was honest with herself, Jane had to acknowledge that she didn't want to return any more than Anne would want to have her there; the thought of coming face to face with the woman whose place she was soon to take was an unsettling one, to say the least, and even if Anne had been able to brazen it out with Queen Katherine, Jane felt that she would never be able to do that – but her sisters were another matter.

Anne could have no quarrel with Bess and Dorothy, save for the fact that their name was Seymour and they were the sisters of the future Queen of England. She was also surely aware of the fact that, as they were known to have been brought to court in a capacity as ladies-in-waiting in the Queen's household, they would be shamed before the rest of the courtiers if they were known to have been so summarily dismissed from their positions, as soon as their temporary mistress laid eyes on them, as though she deemed them to be so far beneath her as to be unworthy to tend to her needs, even though Anne was not much better born than the Seymours, even if she was the granddaughter of a duke. It was wrong for her to embarrass them like that.

Regardless of the fact that the circumstances were uncomfortable, Anne should not have set out to make things worse than they already were.

Even if she could not bring herself to make things easier for all concerned by quietly retiring from the court and residing in the country until the annulment was sorted out, perhaps claiming that she was unwell and needed to recuperate, it was not too much to expect of her that she behave with a modicum of dignity and grace over the coming months. It was only a matter of time before she was set aside and Jane became Queen in her stead and, until then, it would not kill Anne to hold her tongue and accept Bess and Dorothy's presence in her household. She did not have to like them but Jane expected her to treat them with respect, just as Anne would surely have expected Jane to treat her own sister had Lady Mary Stafford been one of her attendants.

"I will speak to the King about this." She promised her sisters, determined that she would not allow Anne to get away with treating them like that, not if she could help it. "He will speak to her and tell her that it is his wish that she reinstate you immediately."

Bess nodded but she was not entirely satisfied by this, her pride still stinging over the way Anne had spoken to her before others. Not all of the ladies had welcomed the Seymour girls when they arrived and she was sure that some of those who had witnessed Anne's reaction to them would be laughing about it right now, delighted to see them singled out for humiliation and thinking that, with Anne back, they no longer needed to worry about cultivating the Seymours' approval and friendship. "Anybody else would be too glad that they were free from the Tower to be so rude to somebody else." She grumbled before glancing at her sister, as though reminded of what Anne's release would mean for Jane. "I'm sorry that you're going to have to wait to marry the King, Janey." She said, thinking that Anne was certain to delay matters as long as she possibly could, even though she must surely know that it would avail her nothing to be stubborn.

"I'm not." As she expected, Jane's response astounded both of her sisters.

"Don't you want to be the Queen?" Dorothy asked, wide-eyed.

"Of course I do," Jane assured her hastily, "but if the Lady Anne is innocent of the crimes she was charged with, then we _must_ be happy that the King learned of her innocence in time to stop her execution, and those of the poor men who were wrongfully accused with her. It would be a terrible way for the King and I to begin our marriage, over the blood of innocent people. It would bring us nothing but ill luck." She pointed out, seeing from the way Bess' cheeks reddened that she had been thinking that, innocent or not, Anne's death would be acceptable if it meant that Jane would be able to be Queen sooner rather than later. "And this way, the King will need to annul his marriage to her if he wishes to be free." She added brightly.

She had been thinking of that since her father first hinted that there would be many people who would be happy to see Anne replaced, should the King decide to make Jane Queen in her place.

If he wanted to annul his marriage, then he had all the grounds he needed, grounds that few people would ever want to dispute and grounds that Jane was sure most of the country, herself included, would be only too delighted to see him use.

If the King came to believe that he was mistaken when he sought to annul his marriage to Queen Katherine, if he realized that theirs had been a true, valid union, then his so-called marriage with the Lady Anne, a union solemnized during Queen Katherine's lifetime, would be automatically invalidated, its issue declared illegitimate. Since Queen Katherine was dead, he would be free to marry Jane as soon as the bishops found that his marriage to Anne was an unlawful one.

The people of England, who had loved Queen Katherine and who were far from pleased to see her cast aside and replaced, would be delighted to see the poor lady vindicated at last, even if she had not lived long enough to see it happen, the pope would be pleased, as would the Emperor and, as soon as her parents' marriage was declared valid, the Princess Mary would be restored to her rightful place, and she would know that it was because of Jane that this had happened for her. Mary had never accepted Anne, which was far from surprising under the circumstances, especially when she was being prevailed upon to repudiate her mother and renounce her own rights in order to solidify Anne's position and little Elizabeth's, but she would be pleased to welcome Jane as her stepmother and as Queen.

When Anne's crimes were discovered – or, rather, when Anne was believed to have committed crimes – Jane was not insensible to the fact that if her predecessor was to be convicted of adultery and treason, crimes that would merit her execution, the King would be free to marry her far sooner than she could ever have expected, as the trials and executions were likely to be over within a matter of weeks, at the most. However, even though she was delighted to think that she might be Queen before the month was out, her joy was tinged with a hint of disappointment.

If Anne was to die, then there would be no need for the King to annul his marriage to her in order to be free. In fact, Jane imagined that he would be reluctant to do so, as she could not be guilty of adultery if she was never truly his wife and as he would not want his subjects to accuse him of having twisted the law for his own ends, in order to rid himself of a woman he had desired for so long but grown tired of once she was his. And if the King's marriage to Anne continued to be deemed lawful and valid, that would mean that Princess Mary would not be restored. Little Princess Elizabeth would continue to be acknowledged as the King's legitimate child, as heir to the throne after Jane's sons, and Mary would continue to be called a bastard. She would be deprived of the rights and privileges she had been born to, rights and privileges that she should still enjoy, and Jane would not be able to help her as much as she had hoped to do so.

Now that Anne was known to be innocent and was not to be executed, the King would have to annul his marriage to her in order to marry Jane. There was no other alternative. It might take longer, as the case was one that would progress more slowly than the trials for treason had, but it would be worth it in the end because, through Jane, the King would set matters to rights. Mary would be restored and Jane was sure that when she bore a son, Mary would be willing to accept him as Prince of Wales, consoling herself with the fact that even if her baby brother supplanted her as heir to the throne by virtue of his sex, she was at least to be restored to her rights as a Princess of England, with her mother posthumously confirmed to have been Queen of England until the day she died. If Anne refused to enter a nunnery, she was likely to be provided with a suitable pension and residence and Jane had every intention of seeing to it that Princess… Lady Elizabeth would be allowed to come to court to see her father often, and that she was honoured as a King's daughter should be, even if she could no longer claim legitimacy.

Bess and Dorothy, who shared Jane's sympathy for the bastardised, disinherited princess, smiled at this, pleased to think of Princess Mary's restoration and that their family would play a part in achieving it. When the King's intention to dissolve his marriage to Queen Katherine became known, their father had warned his family and servants that, regardless of their personal feelings about the King's Great Matter, he was, first and foremost, a loyal servant to the King and, as such, he had a duty to support him, remembering that it was not his place to criticize his sovereign's actions, and he expected his household to follow his example. He stressed that it was vital that they should not speak a word against Lady Anne and, when the time came, they all took the Oath without protesting or quibbling, vowing to acknowledge Anne's children as the rightful heirs to the throne and accepting that Mary, as a bastard, was to be disinherited but, even if they had not said so, even amongst themselves, they were not happy about it, far from it.

Queen Katherine was a good woman who did not deserve to be set aside in favour of a young temptress with more ambition than a sense of what was fitting, and her daughter did not deserve to be robbed of her birthright for the sake of Anne's child, much less to be forced to act as a maid in waiting to the child who usurped her place.

"When you are Queen, you will be able to set it to rights." Dorothy predicted brightly, her confidence in her elder sister absolute.

"You're a fool." A voice stated flatly from the doorway and the three sisters whirled around to see her brother standing behind them, a grim expression on his face. Edward Seymour frowned at his sisters, so irritated by their optimism that it showed even through his usual inscrutable façade. "You're all fools if you think that Jane can ever be Queen now."

Bess scowled at him. "She will! It will just take a little longer now, that's all. The King will annul his marriage and…"

"No, he won't." Edward contradicted her, his tone leaving no room for argument.

"He was going to have to annul it before." Jane pointed out, dismayed by his words. "When you and Father said that I might be Queen instead of Lady Anne, you knew that the King was going to have to annul his marriage to her before he could marry me. There were grounds he could cite…"

"That was before the trial." Edward cut her off firmly, his disappointment colouring his tone slightly. They had come so close to having it all that losing their glorious prospects left an extremely bitter taste in his mouth. "Before the trial, His Majesty could have cited any grounds he chose to name, reasonable or not, and the people would have accepted them and been glad enough to see Queen Anne displaced, and they'd certainly have welcomed you as England's new Queen, especially if they saw that you were kind to the Lady Mary and that you wanted to do right by her but it is a different matter now. You know that the people were not happy when the Queen was put on trial – just as you know that there were some who blamed you for it," he added, seeing Jane's cheeks colour at the memory of the ballad circulating through London.

She was horrified and hurt when she first heard of it, insisting that the servant who had heard it at the market should repeat it for her, despite the woman's best efforts to dissuade her and her insistence that it wasn't fit for her ears, and what she heard upset her greatly. Not only was she being blamed for the fact that Anne had been arrested and charged with adultery, with the implication that the trial was happening solely for her benefit, because she had deliberately set out to entice the King to marry her and that she was content to see innocent people brought to the scaffold in order to satisfy her desire to be Queen, she was also being blamed for the fact that Anne had miscarried her son in January.

The ballad accused her of deliberately enticing the King to take her on his knee when she knew that the pregnant Queen was seeking her husband out, in the hopes that she could shock her unhappy mistress into miscarrying the prince she carried, robbing Anne of the security that the birth of a healthy son would have brought her and depriving England of an heir. Nobody cared to hear the truth of the story, to believe that she was blameless, that it was the King who asked her to sit on his lap and that she had obeyed with reluctance, feeling shy about refusing.

They wanted somebody to blame for what happened to Anne and they settled on her.

"I dare say, sister, that there are many people in London, the women in particular, who would be content to see you stripped and whipped through the streets as a strumpet." Edward observed dispassionately, ignoring his sisters' collective gasps of dismay at the mere suggestion of such an awful possibility, a humiliating punishment reserved for the lowest whores. "Even if the Queen were to sicken and die tomorrow, they'd never accept you as Queen – even if they didn't believe that you were the one who poisoned her, or some such, in order to clear your path to the marriage bed and to the throne. If the King tries to annul their marriage, it will be assumed that this is simply another attempt to rid himself of her and that this was the goal of the trial. He can't afford to let anybody say such a thing of him and he's no fool. He won't openly court the people's displeasure, not for your sake."

"But he promised…" Jane protested faintly, thinking of how excited the King had been when he commanded her to return to Wolf Hall, tenderly telling her that he did not want her to be tainted by all that was happening. She might not have known then what it was he was talking about but she could tell from the look in his eyes that the thought that they would soon have all they desired was one that he found more than pleasing. He loved her, she was sure of that, and he wanted her to be his wife. Surely he would not give up the possibility of their being together as easily as Edward seemed to think he would!

"It's not a promise that he will be able to keep, not now." Edward stated. "When he learned that the Queen was innocent and made the choice to make that knowledge public, he must have known that he would be giving up any chance he had of being able to marry you. He knew that once he told the people that the Queen was innocent, they would expect him to keep her as his wife for the rest of their lives. He made his choice and he chose the Queen. He is going to have to stick to his choice now, whatever the consequences. There will be no annulment for him and Anne, which means that there will be no crown for you."

She would not have wanted to see an innocent woman killed for her sake.

If Anne was innocent, then she could not begrudge her her life or her freedom, even if it meant that she had to give up her own hopes.

The King had done the right thing, the only thing that Jane would ever have wanted him to do.

No matter how often she repeated those thoughts in her mind, Jane could not quash the feeling of disappointment welling within her, disappointment that was coupled with embarrassment.

Everybody at court knew that the King hoped to make her his next Queen.

Jane might not have been at court while Anne's trial was in progress but her brothers were and, when Thomas visited her at Wolf Hall last week, he gleefully related how what seemed like more than half of the courtiers, many of whom would not have deemed the Seymours to be worthy of so much as a 'good day' half a year ago, were eagerly seeking out their friendship, pledging their support and already dropping heavy hints about issues they would appreciate their bringing to the King's ear if they had the chance, or about relatives seeking positions at court. Just as Anne and her male relatives had once been courted when it looked as though she would soon be Queen, Jane's relatives were now the ones who had people beating a path to their door.

If, after everything that happened, it became apparent to everybody that she had no chance of ever becoming Queen, as she would be thought to have aimed for, she would be an object of ridicule for the whole court. The people who would have cheered her victory would mock her defeat and those who might have been pleased to see her take Anne's place and who would have been eager to seek her friendship then, in the hopes that she would remember them when she became Queen, would quickly distance themselves from her. Even if she was permitted to retain her position as lady-in-waiting in Anne's household, something she doubted very much and that she did not truly want to happen under the circumstances, she would still be mocked. People would assume that she was the King's mistress or that he planned to make her that and, as long as that was the case, no man would seek her hand in marriage and risk being made a cuckold.

If she wasn't going to be able to marry the King, then it would be better for her to return to Wolf Hall straight away, minimizing her humiliation as much as she possibly could and hoping that, in time, people would forget that Jane Seymour had ever aspired to be Queen.

"But the King sent for Jane, and for you and Father." Dorothy pointed out shyly, eager to find a hopeful sign that she could seize on, something that would allow her to believe that all was not lost. "Why would he do that if he didn't still want her to be his Queen, especially if he thought that it would make people angry if they knew that he brought Jane back." If, as Edward suggested, the people were angry about what was happening and believed that Jane was the reason for what had happened with Anne – which was very unfair, as Dorothy was certain that her sister would never have even dreamed of asking or hinting that such a thing should be done for her sake, not even for so glorious a prize as becoming Queen – then surely the last thing he would want would be to inflame feelings any further by bringing them all to court.

If he had summoned Jane, then he was certain to have his reasons for doing so.

Edward nodded at that, acknowledging the truth of his youngest sister's words. While he knew that Jane would never be allowed to become Queen, not now, he couldn't decide whether the fact that the King had invited them back to court was a good thing or a bad thing. He had already sent a message requesting that Edward, along with his father and brother, should come down to see him in an hour's time and none of them could say for certain whether they thought that this was a positive sign or a negative one.

Edward had his suspicions.

The King desired Jane. He had made that fact apparent, even though it was plain from the beginning that he saw her as more than just another conquest, a woman who caught his fancy but who was likely to be forgotten as soon as the King bedded her. Once the Queen miscarried, the King took it as a sign that she would never be able to bear him the healthy son and heir he craved and, when he decided to set her aside, he set his heart on Jane to replace her.

He would never be able to marry Jane now but that did not necessarily mean that he had abandoned the idea of possessing her. He may simply have changed his mind about the terms on which he wished to make her his, deciding that if he could not make her his wife, he would find the prospect of making her his mistress to be more than acceptable.

Could the meeting he planned with Edward, his father and his brother be the King's way of testing the waters, finding out what price he would have to pay in exchange for their compliance if he wished to make Jane his mistress, now that he was no longer in a position to offer her an honourable marriage? Would he give them a few minor titles and offices to see how willingly they would agree to turn a blind eye to his intentions, abandoning the idea of chaperoning his meetings with Jane, as they had until this point, leaving the two of them alone so that he could seduce her without hindrance?

If that was what the King intended, then something could be salvaged from all of this.

Edward knew that he was an intelligent man. When he was a boy, the tutor charged with educating the Seymour children swore that the eldest son of the house was the cleverest scholar he had ever taught, praising his quick, shrewd mind and predicting that he would go far one day.

At court, however, a man needed more than intelligence if he hoped to make his fortune. Clever men could and did advance at court, sometimes amassing considerable fortunes and even raising their status by being bestowed with a title but before they could do so, they needed to have the opportunity. For every position that became available, there was always a surplus of men at court waiting to fill it and candidates were chosen because of their family connections, or because somebody in an influential position was willing to speak for them, rather than because they were the one best suited for the post. If they made a success of their position, they might hope to catch the King's attention through their efforts and win his approval, the most valuable prize for a courtier and one that could lead to more exalted and lucrative positions.

Jane would not need to hold the King's interest for long.

If she became the King's mistress, then the King would be generous towards her relatives, as he often was to the families of those who pleased him, even if his favour tended to be fleeting. There would be jewels and gowns for Jane, land grants for their father and for Edward, and for Thomas too, there would be appointments to sought-after positions at court, appointments that would give them their chance to shine.

If the King lost interest in Jane later, it would not matter, Edward told himself, ignoring the fact that if that happened, his sister was likely to be crushed and her reputation and prospects would both suffer serious harm, even if the King was prepared to supply her with a dowry and arrange a marriage for her, to a suitable courtier, one who would be well compensated for taking on the King's cast-off. If he was able to have a chance to show the King what he could do for him, then he would survive his sister's being cast aside, perhaps even thrive afterwards. The King would know that he had a loyal and able servant in Edward Seymour and he would not cast a good servant aside as lightly as he would a mistress who no longer pleased him as she once had. If he could have a chance to prove himself, he would make use of it and he was confident that his abilities would win him the bright future he hoped for.

All he needed was the chance.

* * *

"What do you suppose that His Majesty wishes to speak to us about?" Sir John Seymour asked in hushed tones as they made their way through the corridors, addressing his question to both sons, hoping that one of them knew more about what was happening that he did. Not knowing was a distinctly uncomfortable feeling, especially when he could sense that other courtiers were likely to be much better informed than he was.

When the King instructed that Jane should leave court and return to Wolf Hall – a sensible precaution and one that Sir John approved of wholeheartedly, as it would mean that his daughter would be away from court while this scandal with the Queen was progressing and because the distance would also keep the King's attentions from becoming more ardent, removing the risk that Jane might succumb to his advances and show him more overt affection than was proper for a good, virtuous maiden, while at the same time ensuring that he would continue to think of her and that his interest would not wane – he had accompanied her, confident that the King would follow soon afterwards, as soon as this situation with the Queen was resolved, and that when he came to Wolf Hall, it would be to ask Sir John's blessing to take his eldest daughter as his wife, a blessing that he would be all to eager to give, delighted with the opportunity to be father-in-law to his sovereign and, with God's help, grandfather to a future Prince of Wales.

However, the King had not come, nor had he sent any messages over the past couple of days, either to enquire after Jane's health or to keep them up to date on the events taking place in London. They heard when the Queen was convicted of all of the crimes she was charged with, news that had not surprised a single member of the Seymour household, but there was no further message… not until the one sent instructing that Sir John should come to court immediately, bringing Jane with him.

The reason for the unexpected summons was not stated and Sir John puzzled over it on the journey back to court, wondering why the King should suddenly change his mind about keeping Jane away from court for the moment, until the executions were over, and whether it boded well or ill for them that he had done so.

Then they returned to court and found the place abuzz with rumours.

It had been discovered by no less a person than the King himself that the charges laid against the Queen were totally false and, naturally, the executions were cancelled and the prisoners exonerated of all charges and freed, with the Queen conducted back to the palace by the King and installed in her apartments once more. Master Cromwell was known to have been confined to his quarters, the smaller apartment he had moved into when he gave up the large suite of rooms he originally occupied in favour of the Seymours in order to facilitate the King's courtship of Jane. Rumours abounded about whether he was to be sent to the Tower for the part he had played in falsely accusing and condemning the Queen, or perhaps even executed. Lady Rochford had also been confined to her quarters, and it seemed that there was a very real possibility that she would be charged with perjury and made to pay the price for lying about her husband and sister-in-law.

Few people would meet Sir John's eyes once he returned, and fewer still seemed to be inclined to seek out his conversation, or to fill him in on the details of what had happened in his absence.

Things were very unsettled and it seemed that people could not decide whether they were better off courting the friendship of the Seymours or shunning them, for fear that they would offend the Queen and her kin if they were thought to side with them.

"I don't know, Father." Edward responded gravely, not wanting to suggest the possibility of Jane's becoming the King's mistress to his father, for fear that he would offend him with the suggestion that his daughter, whom he fondly described as possessing virtue and modesty in her nature, should enter into a liaison with a married man, preferring to leave it to the King to broach the possibility if that was what he intended.

"I'd say that His Majesty wants to find out if he could have your blessing to have Jane without the benefit of a wedding." Thomas, who had never shared his brother's prudence, suggested coarsely, untroubled by either his brother's sharp frown or the reproachful expression on his father's face. He rolled his eyes at their expression. "Just because the King can't have her as a wife doesn't mean that he's given up on the idea of having her at all." He suggested bluntly, scorning tact. "And at least there'd be some benefit in her being his mistress, for all of us."

This was undeniable but it did not mean that this was a possibility that Sir John wished to contemplate, or that he had any intention of pressing or even encouraging his dear daughter to give herself to the King if she did not wish to do so. Perhaps it would be better for him to send her back home instead. Thomas might be right that the family could benefit if she did – though Sir John would far rather that he and his sons should earn what they had through their own efforts, instead of being like Thomas Boleyn, a man known to have climbed so high due, at least in part, to the fact that the King had taken a fancy to each of the man's daughters in turn – but the liaison would be short-lived, and who could say what would become of Jane when it was over?

The idea of buying temporary advantage for themselves at the expense of Jane's future happiness and prospects was distasteful, to say the least.

As they neared the King's study, their conversation halted.

The King's chamberlain opened the door for them, announcing their arrival in clear, ringing tones. "Sir John Seymour and his sons, Your Majesty."

"Sir John, Edward, Thomas." The King nodded to each of them in turn, remaining seated and regarding them with a cold, appraising stare as they made their bows. He did not invite them to be seated and there was no sign of pleasure or welcome in his eyes. He left them to stand in uncomfortable silence for several long minutes before he spoke again, ending the period of suspense, and when he did, his tone was icy and hard. "I paid a visit to Wolf Hall, Sir John, the evening before last."

"Your Majesty?" Sir John was bewildered by this. If the King had visited, then surely he could not have done so without his knowledge. A messenger would have been sent ahead, to let them know of their royal visitors approach and the King's retinue and standard would have been spotted from a considerable distance. His household would have had to work their fingers to the bone to ensure that the manor was spotless and in good repair, and to ensure that they could entertain the King with the degree of hospitality that his rank demanded.

"I did not send a message on ahead," Henry told him curtly, seeing that he was bewildered by this. "I was not visiting as King, I was coming on a friendly, informal visit… courting." At the memory of how eagerly he had ridden to Wolf Hall, like a humble suitor come, cap in hand, to court a pretty maiden, he frowned deeply, angry at how his hopes for a pleasant, romantic evening with Jane were so abruptly shattered by what he had heard them say. "I wished to surprise you all and I gave orders to your servants that they were not to inform you that I had come to visit – I am pleased to see that they obeyed my orders, at least." He observed. "While I was there, I chanced to overhear a conversation, one that angered and saddened me."

Edward felt a chill race through his bones, and his heart seemed to twist in his chest, as though it was distressed by what he was hearing, knowing what it would mean for him.

The flowers…

Upon leaving his father's study on the night in question, he found that cluster of wildflowers strewn untidily on the floor outside the door. He thought little of it, assuming that they had been gathered by a servant who had carelessly allowed them to fall and, after summoning one of the maids to clean up the mess, he thought no more about it, never even thinking to question how they might have come to be there. Now he knew.

The King had come calling, hoping to surprise them and bringing the flowers with him as a gift for Jane – the kind of romantic gesture he seemed to delight in when he came to Jane, as though this was his way of proving to himself that she was truly the modest maiden of his fantasies, as pleased with the simplest gift as another woman would be with the most glorious jewels at the King's disposal – and when he was at Wolf Hall he had, by some cruel chance, happened to hear what they would never have wanted him to hear.

A gasp of dismay from his father indicated that he too knew what the King had heard.

Satisfied that they knew what it was he referred to, Henry continued. "As you might imagine, I was amazed and dismayed to find that men I had counted on as my good, loyal servants – men that I believed to have been my friends – suspected that there was more to the Queen's trial than met the eye, even that, as Master Edward suggested, the fact that the Queen and Master Cromwell had quarrelled was the reason why such foul allegations had been made, and proven against her and that, but for that, she would never have been accused or condemned." He paused briefly, giving them a moment to digest his words, before continuing. "However, as distressed as I was by the thought that my wife was unjustly condemned, I was infinitely more distressed by the fact that these men, my supposed servants and friends, knew of the injustice that was being carried out but chose to remain silent rather that speaking out and preventing it. I had received no message from them, warning that the Queen might not be guilty, as I had been led to believe."

"Your Majesty…" Sir John began to protest, albeit half-heartedly.

"Be silent, Sir John!" Henry barked at the man who, this time last week, he expected would soon be his father-in-law. He took a breath to calm himself before continuing. "You revealed your ambitions that night and there's no sense in denying them now. You wished to see Jane as my wife, and you were planning that even before the Queen was arrested – before we lost our child." He scowled; such was their ambition that they would have preferred to see Anne lose his son than for him to have the heir that he, and all of England needed, just because they knew that the birth of a healthy son would have proven to him that he was right to marry Anne and showed him that he was meant to stay married to her, which would have prevented him from marrying Jane.

"Your Majesty, I have been at court these past weeks." Thomas chimed in, eager to deflect the blame from his own head if it was at all possible for him to do so, even if it meant that he had to direct the King's anger towards his kin. "I was not at Wolf Hall that night, when you visited, and whatever it was you overheard, it cannot have been anything that _I_ said."

"No," Henry agreed readily. He knew exactly where the younger Seymour son had been over the past two weeks. He would have had to be blind not to notice the way so many of his courtiers were eagerly flocking to the two Seymour sons, hoping to win their friendship and expecting that they would soon be brothers-in-law to the King, a state of affairs that Thomas in particular seemed to relish. At the time, it had not troubled him unduly, in fact he was pleased to see that his courtiers seemed to be willing to welcome the Seymours, knowing that this would make things easier for Jane when the time came if she and her family were welcomed warmly instead of with the barely concealed resentment with which the Boleyns' rise was greeted, but now he was irritated by the memory of their behaviour and their unseemly arrogance. "But I have no doubt that you were aware of what was happening." Thomas could not deny that and he had the grace to look slightly shame-faced. "You all were." Even Jane, he added silently, pained by the thought that she too could have involved herself in this sordid affair.

"Your Majesty, my sons and I... we never..." Sir John began, feeling his hopes melt away, as though he was standing on a frozen lake, with only a thin layer of ice between him and a death by drowning, and trying desperately to reach the shore, before it was too late. "We never accused the Queen of any crime, nor did we ever seek to procure false evidence against her..."

"But you knew." Henry cut him off. "You knew and yet you still remained silent. You were content to allow this injustice – an injustice committed in my name – to be carried out, for the sake of your own ambition." Whatever else could be said for Cromwell, Henry knew that his former Lord Chancellor would not have sought to bring Anne down for the sake of his own ambition; he had never been greedy for titles, as some were, and would not have made a move against her unless he was deluded into thinking that this was what was necessary for a Spanish alliance, and for the birth of an heir – as though either of these were cause enough for Henry to imperil his soul with the murder of his innocent wife! "Do you truly think that your silence makes you less culpable than those who plotted against the Queen, simply because you took no direct part in the plotting and were content to stand by and allow others to do the deed for you? You are not less guilty than they are, gentleman, you are simply more cowardly."

Faced with his angry stare, none of them dared to say a word, waiting in uncomfortable, fearful silence for the King to continue to speak. None of them had any doubt that they were about to pay the price for their silence, and that the price was bound to be a heavy one. All that was left was to find out what that price would be.

Henry regarded Thomas first, mentally recalling which titles and offices he had bestowed on Jane's younger brother in the past few weeks, not wanting to miss a single one. There was no way that he was prepared to allow any of the men to retain any of the benefits they had derived from their silent compliance to the unjust accusations laid against Anne and the others. "You will no longer serve as Master of Buckhounds, as steward of Tonbridge or as a groom of my Privy Chamber." He informed him in cold tones, taking a measure of grim satisfaction from the other man's visible flinch as, in a single sentence, he deprived him of both two lucrative offices and of his privileged position in the inner circle, as one of his personal attendants, any one of which was doubly important to any courtier, least of all a younger son who could not rely on a family inheritance. "You will also immediately surrender the manor of Grimstone. You will deliver the deed to Lord Rochford as soon as this audience is concluded." He added.

The manor had been a gift to George Boleyn and, like all of his property, would have become forfeit to the Crown as soon as he was convicted of treason but Henry had not waited for a verdict, granting it to Jane's brother as soon as the arrests were made, placating his conscience with the reminder that, should George be proven innocent, he could be granted another manor in Grimstone's stead. One house would surely be as good as another, and even if George resented having to exchange manors, it was not as though he was still in a position where Henry sought to please him for Anne's sake. Now that George had been proven to be innocent, it was only right that his property should be restored to him along with the positions he previously held.

"Yes, Your Majesty." Thomas responded, thoroughly subdued for once in his life.

Henry turned to Edward next. As the eldest brother, he was granted far more than Thomas was but now, that only meant that he had more to lose. "Master Seymour, you no longer enjoy my affection or my friendship and you will therefore no longer act as a member of my Privy Council. You are stripped of all of your official posts and titles, as you have proven yourself so unworthy of them. You will also vacate your apartment at court at once." Cromwell had not consulted him before offering his apartment, one of the largest suites in the palace and one that was directly adjacent to Henry's own rooms, to Edward Seymour and his family, in order to facilitate Henry's courtship of Jane. He was surprised when Henry chastised him for it, as he had not realized that the last thing his master would have wanted was for public notice to be drawn to his love for Jane and his intentions towards her in such a manner.

Not only was the need to protect Jane's reputation paramount, they had also needed to ensure that no hint of the fact that he planned to annul his marriage to Anne reached her ears, or those of her family and supporters, until it was too late for them to do anything about it. Cromwell's offer of his apartment had risked drawing Anne's attention to what was happening.

Henry supposed that the newly vacated apartment ought to be offered to Thomas Boleyn now, as a signal to the court that his father-in-law still occupied a high position in his esteem, even if that was not strictly true, and perhaps it might even soften Anne's anger if she could see that her father was being honoured, as he was during their happiest days. He could not dissolve his marriage to Anne, he had accepted that, however reluctantly, and he was well aware of the fact that it would be better for all concerned if they could resume cordial relations, at the very least.

Sir John found it very difficult to meet Henry's eyes as he began to list the offices and stewardships that were being stripped from him, his heart sinking with each one of them. Every lost title represented a loss of prestige, of power, of income and, perhaps worst of all, of his King's trust and esteem. For a man who had prided himself on being a loyal servant to his sovereign, the last loss was a devastating one. When Henry finished listing those he had bestowed on him over the past couple of months, he hoped against hope that he was finished, that he would be satisfied with withdrawing all of the benefits he had lavished on him since Jane caught his eye but he kept speaking, his tone cold and emotionless, taking away more and more until there was scarcely anything left to take.

"...and the wardship of Savernake Forest." Henry ended the litany of stewardships, naming the office that had been passed down from father to son among the Seymours for over two hundred years, the position on which a significant portion of the family income depended. He paused for a moment, just long enough to give the other man hope that this would be the end of it, that he might be allowed to retain _something_ of his former honours, before continuing, in a meditative tone. "A knight should be brave and chivalrous, Sir John, as I used to believe you to be. He should _protect_ innocent ladies from harm, instead of standing by and allowing them to be hurt. Since you have proven so unworthy of the title of knight, we no longer wish for you to carry it."

It took a few moments for Sir John to regain control of his tongue and even when he did, his voice was meek when her responded. "If it is Your Majesty's wish."

"It is, Master Seymour." Henry said, stressing his omission of the title of Sir, which had been the other man's right until now. He was satisfied that John Seymour and his sons had paid a sufficient price for their actions... almost. "You will leave the court today." He commanded them. "You will be gone before the evening meal and, if you ever dare to return, you will find yourselves lodging in the Tower, and not for a short stay. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Your Majesty." They chorused. John and Edward remained silent afterwards, knowing that, as steep a price as they were being commanded to pay, it could have been steeper still. They could have had to forfeit their freedom, perhaps even their lives. Only Thomas dared to speak.

"What of my sister, Your Majesty?" He asked daringly, playing his trump card. No matter how angry the King was over the fact that they had remained silent over the matter of Anne's trial, he doubted that he had forgotten that he had taken a fancy to Jane, or that he no longer wished to possess her. "Do you also wish for _Jane_ to leave the court?"

If the King wished for Jane to stay at court, then for the sake of propriety, she would need to either be living with one of her relatives, in their apartments, or else she would need to return to her duties as lady-in-waiting to Anne, residing in the quarters for the Queen's unmarried attendants and remaining under Anne's supervision and the chaperonage of the senior ladies-in-waiting, at least nominally. It would be unseemly for an unmarried lady to reside at court under any other circumstances.

If the King wanted Jane, he would need to take her family as well.

Henry hesitated for a moment, trying to make up his mind about the right course of action to take. "Tell Mistress Seymour that I wish to see her at once." He commanded. He did not couch it as a request, as he would have a few weeks previously. The Seymour men were no longer his future father- and brothers-in-law, deserving of the respect that should exist in a family. They were merely subjects now, disloyal subjects at that, and they did not deserve the same courtesies. "You are dismissed." He told them coldly. "And you will not come into my sight again."

They left the room, knowing better than to argue with him.

It was several minutes before Jane arrived but it seemed to Henry as though he had had scarcely a moment to gather his thoughts before she arrived, curtseying deeply as soon as she crossed the threshold into the room.

"Your Majesty." Her voice was soft as she greeted him. A couple of days ago, he would have said that her voice was the sweetest, most welcome sound that he could ever have heard but now it grated on his nerves, irritating him to no end. When Henry didn't speak, she seized the opportunity to do so herself, raising an issue she considered of great importance. "Your Majesty, I do not wish to complain," she began, giving him a submissive smile, "and I know that the Queen's experience in the Tower must have been terrible..."

"What about the Queen?" Henry asked, momentarily distracted.

"My sisters, Bess and Dorothy… Your Majesty was kind enough to appoint them as ladies-in-waiting and the Queen dismissed them upon her return, as soon as she was told their names." Jane explained. Despite her words about not wishing to complain, she couldn't keep a note of irritation and indignation from her voice. Her sisters had been insulted, as had she, and no matter how hard she tried not to let it show, she could not completely conceal those feelings. "She ordered them from her rooms and forbade them to return."

Oh God!

Henry had not even thought about the two younger Seymour daughters, or their appointment. Technically, they were appointed to Anne's household but when they were appointed, just after Anne's arrest, he knew that the chances of them ever serving Anne were exceptionally slim but he wanted to make sure that as soon as he brought Jane back to court, as his future wife and his future Queen, her household would be ready for her, and the faces in it would be friendly.

He hadn't even thought about them since, especially once he began to doubt Anne's guilt, something that he was now berating himself for.

He should have seen to it that the Seymour girls were gone by the time Anne returned to Whitehall, just as he should have seen to it that Mistress Saville and Lady Shelton, dismissed to make room for Jane's sisters and because he suspected that neither of them would be keen to welcome their new Queen when the time came due to their connections to Anne, were reinstated before Anne could get back, before she could see that, in her absence, no time had been wasted with the court moving on without her, with the way being paved for her successor.

His voice was cold and clipped as he spoke to Jane. "Her Majesty the Queen is entitled to run her household as she sees fit." He told her, ignoring his awareness of the hypocrisy of what he was saying. He had not asked Anne before he told Jane's father that his daughter should come to court as one of her ladies and, almost two years ago, when he learned that she had dismissed Lady Eleanor Luke from her service, he called her to him to question her about it as soon as he learned what she had done. He ruthlessly suppressed that inner voice, continuing to speak to Jane in a stern tone. "If she did not wish for your sisters to be retained in her service, then she is perfectly within her rights to dismiss them if she so chooses – and as their service in the Queen's household is no longer required, they will go back to Wolf Hall when your father and brothers do."

"Yes, Your Majesty." Jane responded, her heart sinking. Bess and Dorothy would be so disappointed when she had to go back to them, to tell them that she had been unable to help them and that they were to be banished from the court, just as if they had been dismissed for misconduct of some kind when they were blameless. It wasn't right but she could hardly tell the King of England that, especially now. "What of me, Your Majesty?"

Her father, her brothers and now her sisters were all to leave the court.

Was she to join them?

Henry regarded for a few more minutes, trying to decide what it was he wanted to say to her, what he wanted to do.

Did he wanted to keep Jane at court or did he want to order her to leave with her family?

Did he want to arrange a suitable marriage for her, allowing her to lead a normal, chaste existence as a good wife and mother or did he want for her to become his mistress?

It need not shame her if she did. Anne certainly didn't seem to want to be a loving wife to him again and even if she did, it was still his right to take his pleasures with other women if he so chose and, regardless of the circumstances, it was not Anne's place to complain if he did. He could arrange for Jane to have an apartment of her own in the palace, far away from Anne's quarters for the sake of discretion, with a couple of maids to tend to her needs. He could see to it that she had all she needed and that she was well cared for.

But did he want to?

He honestly didn't know.

Even when Jane was standing right in front of him, he didn't know whether he wanted her to be his or if he wanted to send her away and never lay eyes on her again.

For Anne's sake, he should send her away.

Anne...

In the end, it all came down to one thing.

"You knew." He said quietly, as much to himself as to Jane. When he saw the puzzled expression on Jane's face, he elaborated, feeling a fresh surge of irritation towards her. "You knew that the Queen might be innocent. You knew that it was possible, even likely, that the charges against her were false, even though she was convicted about them. You knew that there were people who might be using the charges in order to destroy her." He looked her straight in the eye, trying to see if there were signs of deception or of remorse there. "Were you going to tell me?" He asked pointedly, searching her eyes.

She didn't answer.

"Jane?" His voice became softer, almost pleading. "Tell me that you were going to tell me the truth. Tell me that you intended to tell me about your suspicions, about what your father and your brother had said, before it was too late." If she told him, he would believe her. He wanted to believe that she wouldn't have stayed quiet over this, that she _couldn't_ have. He didn't want to believe that he could have been so wrong about her nature. "Tell me that you weren't going to let her die. Tell me that you weren't going to let me kill her. Tell me! Please!"

She shook her head, almost imperceptibly, wishing that she could tell him what he wanted to hear, to convince him – to convince herself – that she wouldn't have let it happen, that she would have said something before it was too late but she couldn't force her tongue to speak the words.

She couldn't make herself lie.

"I'm so sorry, Your Majesty." She said, allowing the tears to flow from her eyes, hoping that he might take pity on her, that he might be able to understand the reasons for her silence. "But you must understand, I..."

"No." Henry's voice sent an icy chill coursing through Jane's veins and she felt as though the rest of the world had frozen around them as he raised his hand, indicating that she should be silent. "You do not have my permission to speak." He told her coldly. She chose to stay silent before, when it truly mattered, now he never wanted to hear another word from her lips. "You will leave this court and you will not return, on pain of imprisonment, for the rest of your life."

He gave her one final command, taking a grim satisfaction from the stricken expression on her face as she registered his order and what it would entail for her, and then he dismissed her.

Forever.

* * *

"Mama!" Elizabeth was so relieved to see her mother that she tugged her hand out of Lady Bryan's hand as soon as they entered her mother's apartments, ignoring her governess' attempts to settle her so that she could greet her properly, as a princess should greet a Queen, dashing towards her instead, delighted to be with her again.

Anne knelt down, her arms outstretched and when Elizabeth ran into them, she scooped her daughter up into her arms, kissing her over and over and hugging her as though she never wanted to let her go again. "My darling girl. My precious, darling girl." She kissed Elizabeth's soft cheeks, then the crown of her head, breathing in her daughter's scent, unable to believe that she was truly holding her child in her arms, that they were together again, half-afraid that her child might melt away at any moment, like a phantom, or a trick of the mind, and that she would find herself in the Tower once more, about to die. "I love you. I love you so much. I love you."

She had almost died without being able to tell Elizabeth this one last time and from now on she was going to lose no opportunity to say it.

She could never know when it might be her last chance to do so.

"I love you, Mama." Elizabeth tightened her chubby arms around her mother's neck, as pleased to be in Anne's arms as Anne was to have her in hers. "Are you alright?" She asked earnestly, pulling away after a few moments to study Anne's face with keen, intelligent eyes and a concerned expression on her face that was completely unsuited to her childish features.

The last time she saw her Mama, she was unhappy and scared, so scared that Elizabeth was able to hear her heart thudding wildly, even through her gown and corset, and to feel her mother's shallow, rapid breaths on her neck as they ran through the gardens. She was so afraid and it was Elizabeth's papa that she was afraid of.

Elizabeth's Papa was so angry that day and he said such terrible things to her Mama, things that Elizabeth couldn't understand but that she could see made her Mama even more upset and even more afraid than she was already. She wanted to make him stop, to be able to tell him that it was very naughty and very nasty of him to say such horrible things to anybody, especially her Mama , who was sweet and kind and beautiful and who loved him very much, and that he should stop right away and tell Mama that he was sorry that he spoke to her like that and that he wouldn't ever do it again but she was too scared to say that, or anything else to Papa. She was afraid that if she did, he would be angry with her as well and that he would be even angrier with Mama than he was before.

She held onto Mama as tightly as she could. She wanted to make sure that Mama knew that she was there and that she loved her very much, even if Papa was being angry and unkind, and she also wanted to cling to her Mama for protection, afraid of what Papa might do when he was so angry. She had never seen him be angry before – _really_ angry and not just pretend for a game – not with anybody and certainly not with her or with her Mama.

Mama wanted him to stay and talk with her but he wouldn't. He pushed her away, so hard that she stumbled and might have dropped Elizabeth if she wasn't holding her so tightly.

Then he walked away and he didn't even look back at them.

Mama put her down and hugged her close for a long time, telling her that she loved her very much and begging her not to forget it, before she finally picked her up again and carried her back inside to her nursery and to Lady Bryan.

After that, Elizabeth hadn't seen her mama again, not until today.

Since then, nobody else had come to the nursery to see her either. Her Papa didn't come to tell her that he was sorry that he had shouted and that she shouldn't be frightened, because he had mended his quarrel with Mama and set things right. Her grandpapa didn't come to tell her that she was the prettiest princess in the world or to give her a gift, like he always did. Her Uncle George didn't come to swing her in his arms or to make her fly around the room or to pretend to be a pony for her and gallop around the nursery to make her laugh. None of the ladies and gentlemen of the court came to greet her because she was the Princess of England and they wanted to come to see her and to kiss her hand.

It was as though nobody knew that she was at court... or as though they knew but didn't care.

Only Lady Bryan and her own servants were there with her, and Lady Bryan wouldn't take her out of the rooms that made up the nursery, not so that they could explore the palace and Lady Bryan could show her all the portraits of the people in Elizabeth's family who had died a long, long time ago but who were very important before then, and not even so that they could go for a walk together out in the gardens, for the fresh air that Lady Bryan always told her was so important, especially for a child who wanted to grow up healthy and strong.

"They didn't let me come to see you." She complained to her Mama, frowning back at Lady Bryan. "I asked them to bring me to visit you, I asked lots and lots of times but Lady Bryan said that I couldn't." She added, wanting to make it clear that she had tried, just in case Mama thought that Elizabeth hadn't wanted to see her and was sad about it. "She said you had gone away, someplace I couldn't visit. Where did you go? What happened?"

Anne hesitated, not knowing what to say. She couldn't blame Henry, she knew that. Whatever else had happened, he was still Elizabeth's father and she wasn't going to put her child in a position where she had to side with one of her parents over the other, especially when she was so young. "There was a mix-up." She said at last, trying to be truthful but, at the same time, to soften her account as much as possible. "Some people thought that I did bad things…"

"You'd never do anything bad." Elizabeth interrupted, her faith in her mother absolute.

Anne smiled sadly, wishing that this was true. There were things she had done that she was ashamed of but this time, she was guiltless of everything they had accused her of. "But they thought I had, so I had to go away for a while but it's sorted out and they know that I didn't do it so I'm back now."

"Forever?" Elizabeth asked solemnly.

"I hope so, sweetheart." Anne said softly, stroking Elizabeth's hair. Henry might not have been able to go through with having her killed but she doubted that he had given up on the idea of ridding himself of her, not if he had his heart set on marrying that Seymour wench. She might have been given a reprieve from death but she wasn't prepared to discount the possibility that an annulment was on the cards, not even when it seemed that the people had finally come to accept her as Queen.

If it happened, if Henry managed to end their marriage, then she would go quietly.

She had witnessed what happened to Katherine when she refused to do as Henry demanded and help him to free himself from their union, even though Katherine was as royal as any princess in Europe – and considerably more royal than Henry himself – and even though she had had the might of the Emperor on her side. Her connections had not saved her from being cast aside, nor had they saved her from being kept in misery and exile as a punishment for her refusal to submit or protected her daughter from being named a bastard, disinherited, stripped of her royal titles and relegated to the ignoble life of a servant.

If Katherine hadn't been able to win, Anne doubted very much that she would be able to and she wouldn't fight a losing battle, not when Elizabeth would be the one to pay the price for her obstinacy, as Mary had for Katherine's. If it came to that, she would surrender, even if the mere thought of standing back and allowing herself to be replaced was a galling one. She would be as reasonable as she could, making sure to secure Elizabeth's status and her place in the succession as much as possible and, more importantly, she would see to it that they could be together.

Elizabeth snuggled closer to her mother, relieved to be back with her and hoping that, since her Mama was back now, things would go back to the way they were supposed to be.

Over the past couple of weeks, her small world, usually such a happy, ordered existence, was turned upside down. First, her Papa was so angry with her Mama, and then her Mama went away and she wasn't allowed to see her and had no other visitors. Most people probably thought that she was too little to be able to know anything about what was happening or to sense when things were different to the way they usually were but, even though she wasn't three yet, Elizabeth was no silly baby who didn't understand what was happening around her. She had sharp eyes and Lady Bryan always said that little pitchers had big ears.

Even her very own servants were acting funny. They still took good care of Elizabeth and they were still very nice and very kind to her – she thought that some of them were being even sweeter and gentler with her than they were before – but something was different.

Lady Bryan was usually very patient and very kind to Elizabeth and she never scolded her or spoke sharply because she wasn't permitted to scold the Princess of England, who might be the Queen one day if she had no baby brother, but Elizabeth had noticed that her governess was distracted over the past days, looking very worried and speaking crossly to Elizabeth's other ladies and servants whenever they made a mistake or made a sudden noise, even though she would never have been angry about little things like that before. She wasn't scared the way Mama was when she tried to speak to Papa but she was scared in her own way, even though she tried to pretend that she wasn't. Something was happening and, whatever it was, Lady Bryan was scared about it.

Then Elizabeth had heard her servants speaking strangely, in hushed voices when they thought that she wasn't listening, often looking back at her with sad expressions on their faces, as though they felt sorry for her, and some of the things they said confused her very much, although she knew better than to ask about what she heard, not wanting them to realize that she was listening.

"Mama?" Her voice was soft as she spoke.

"What is it, sweetheart?" Anne asked, moving to sit down on the couch, keeping Elizabeth in her lap and rocking her a little, very gently.

"What's a bastard?"

"Your Highness!" Lady Bryan sprang forward, scandalized, panic in her eyes as she looked in Anne's direction, as though she thought that there might be some faint hope that she had not heard. "You mustn't use such words," she chided hastily, "especially in front of the Queen."

"But…" Elizabeth wasn't sure why Lady Bryan should be so cross about that word – she had heard her governess use it herself, after all – but she could tell that her governess was upset with her.

"You may leave us, Lady Bryan." Anne said firmly, waving a hand in the direction of the door, an imperious gesture that Lady Bryan did not dare to ignore.

"Yes, Your Majesty." Lady Bryan curtsied, withdrawing from the room, albeit with considerable reluctance, worried about what her small charge would reveal in her absence.

Anne waited until they were alone before cuddling Elizabeth closer, forcing herself to smile reassuringly for her daughter's sake, so that she would not be wary of speaking, despite her governess' disapproval. "Where did you hear that word, sweetheart?" She asked gently. Elizabeth didn't say anything, afraid that her governess might be right that it wasn't a fitting thing for her to speak about in front of the Queen and that it might upset her mother if she persisted in questioning her about the mysterious term. "It's alright, my darling," Anne reassured her. "I'm not angry, I just want to know who said that word to you."

"I don't 'member who." Elizabeth lowered her eyes, hoping that her Mama wouldn't know that she was telling a fib, but she didn't want her ladies to get into trouble. "And they didn't know I could hear. They were talking about me, and if I was going to be a bastard now."

It took every ounce of self-control Anne possessed not to allow her anger at this revelation to show, knowing that if she betrayed any hint of what she was feeling, Elizabeth was certain to think that she had erred in speaking about it, and she didn't want her daughter to feel as though she couldn't speak freely in front of her, or to ask her about things that troubled her.

She might have known!

Anybody would have thought that Henry would be content with allowing her to be executed in order to free himself to marry his adored slut, the wench who pretended to be so modest and so virtuous, fooling half the court with her act, but who was perfectly content to plot for the throne, even when she knew that it would only be vacated by the murder of her predecessor. Anybody would have thought that, even if he convinced himself that she had betrayed him, he would content himself with having her pay for her supposed crime with her life, without him needing to take additional vengeance on anybody, least of all their innocent child. Anybody would have thought that, if nothing else, Henry would have had the sense not to cast aside his only legitimate heir, leaving the kingdom vulnerable if anything happened to him.

But even her death would not have been enough for him.

He also had to annul their marriage, inflicting the only punishment that could add to the pain of being executed on the orders of the man she loved, knowing that if he annulled their marriage, if he declared Elizabeth a bastard, then even her last days of this life would be haunted by the thought of what would become of her beloved child when she was left motherless, with a father who wanted nothing to do with her.

Killing her wasn't enough for Henry.

Replacing her with the wretched Mistress Seymour wasn't enough for Henry.

Knowing that his half Seymour sons would displace their daughter wasn't enough for Henry.

He also had to punish Elizabeth, an innocent little child, depriving her of her rights as a princess and as heiress presumptive to the throne in order to ensure that, even if Jane only bore him girls, a daughter of hers would become Queen, not Elizabeth. Anne certainly couldn't imagine that any child of Jane's and Henry's, boy or girl, would ever be fit to rule over so much as a kitchen or a stable, let alone England – and that was if their wretched brat didn't prove to be such a puling, useless weakling that it would sicken and die before it reached adulthood. She doubted that they could ever produce any child that would be worth the effort of getting it and they could certainly never bring a child as strong, intelligent, beautiful and loving as her Elizabeth into the world.

Even if she could have forgiven Henry for his willingness to see her executed, even if she could give him the benefit of the doubt and assume that he was truly deceived into believing her to be guilty, that it had grieved him to learn of it and that he genuinely rejoiced when he learned of her innocence, what he planned to do to Elizabeth was another matter.

She could never forgive him for being prepared to hurt their innocent child.

Elizabeth was waiting for an answer to her question and Anne forced herself to smile and to keep her tone light while she gave it.

"A bastard is a name for somebody unfortunate, somebody whose parents are not married." She explained, using the simplest explanation she could come up with and hoping that it would satisfy her brilliant child.

"But you and Papa are married." Elizabeth protested. She could understand that it might be different for somebody if their parents weren't married – the Lady Mary, who was her sister as well as being one of her servants, was Papa's daughter but not Mama's, which meant that Mary didn't get to be a princess the way she did – but she couldn't understand how she could become a bastard, not when she knew that her Mama was her Papa's wife. If they were married already, how could anybody make them not be married any more?

It was so _silly_ of her ladies to think that she could ever become a bastard!

"Yes, we are." Anne responded firmly, tucking a stray lock of hair away from Elizabeth's face before bending forward to kiss her forehead. She hugged Elizabeth close to her. "I don't want you to worry about anything you heard them say, do you understand? Everything's going to be alright now. I'm here."

"Yes, Mama." Elizabeth wrapped her arms around Anne's neck and planted a smacking kiss on her cheek. "Are you alright now as well?" She asked, worried that her Mama might still be sad or scared about the way Papa had shouted at her.

Anne smiled. "Now that we're together again, I am." She assured her, forcing a note of cheerfulness into her voice that she didn't feel but, thankfully, it satisfied Elizabeth, who beamed up at her.

"Good." Elizabeth was about to begin to coax her Mama into bringing her outside so that they could play in the gardens or maybe feed the fishes when there was a knock on the door. She watched as one of Mama's ladies, the one who was sitting nearest to the door, rose and opened it, admitting another lady, one with blonde hair. She could feel her Mama's posture stiffen as the lady entered, just as she could feel her arm tighten slightly around her waist, as though she was afraid that the lady might try to snatch Elizabeth out of her arms if she didn't hold her securely.

Jane felt the eyes of everybody in the room fix on her, their stares boring through her skin, as though they wanted to sear her flesh with their cold, angry gazes. She would have given anything not to come here but it was the King's command and she did not dare to disobey it, especially when she and her family were already in disgrace.

She curtsied deeply as soon as she came within a dozen paces of Anne, murmuring "Your Majesty." She did not rise from her curtsey, knowing that it was for Anne to tell her when she might rise, and she kept her gaze lowered, studying the polished floorboards, gleaming with wax and years of hard rubbing. What felt like an eternity passed as she stayed there, awkwardly balanced in a curtsey.

Anne seemed to be in no hurry to permit her to stand.

When Anne finally deigned to address her, her tone was bored, almost bland. "You may rise, Mistress Seymour." She said, motioning for Jane to stand. Her eyes were cool as she regarded Jane, betraying no hint of what she was feeling, although Jane could well imagine what was going through her mind and knew that she was unlikely to be pleased to see her.

Of course, Anne did not know why she was here.

Once she rose from her curtsey to Anne, she made another curtsey in Elizabeth's direction. "Princess Elizabeth." How could such a small child, a little girl not three years old yet, possibly be able to make her feel so awkward and unworthy, with no more than a silent gaze?

Elizabeth regarded Mistress Seymour in silence for a few moments before tugging on her mother's sleeve, gesturing for her to bend forward so that she could whisper a secret in her ear. "I don't like that lady!" She said in a hissed whisper. She didn't know why but there was something about Mistress Seymour that she did not trust, something that made her think that she was trouble. She meant for her secret to be for her Mama's ears alone but she must have been too loud when she told it to her; several of her Mama's ladies tittered at her words and Mistress Seymour's face became very flushed.

Anne smiled, bending down and mimicking her daughter's conspiratorial whisper. "I don't like her either, sweetheart – and she's no lady." She raised her voice slightly for the last part, fully intending for Jane to hear every word.

If the wench chose to run to Henry with tearful complaints about the way she was being insulted and ill-treated, Anne didn't care… and the fact that Jane was present in her rooms right now, with such a woebegone expression on her face made her suspect that, for whatever reason, Henry wouldn't care either.

"What is it that you want, Mistress Seymour?" She asked with feigned politeness. "Did your sisters neglect to explain my policy regarding Seymours who presume to enter this chamber to you?"

"No, Your Majesty." Jane responded, wondering if Anne would truly dare to order her to be thrown out the window. At this moment, she wouldn't have put it past her to order it, or to get away with doing so. "His Majesty asked me…"

"Asked?" Anne raised a disbelieving eyebrow, emphasising her scepticism over Jane's choice of words.

Swallowing, Jane amended her words. "His Majesty ordered me to come here, Your Majesty…"

"Did he?" Anne asked innocently, guessing from Jane's visible discomfort where this was going and feeling pleased and relieved over it. "Whatever would he want you to do that for, Mistress Seymour?"

"He asked… he ordered me to come to let you know that he has dismissed me as your lady-in-waiting… he no longer thinks me worthy of the post." Jane said, feeling her cheeks growing warmer and warmer with each word. She swallowed, summoning her courage to finish carrying out the King's orders, praying that Anne would have some small shred of pity for her, enough to keep her from dragging out this ordeal any longer than absolutely necessary. "His Majesty ordered that I come to you and beg your permission to withdraw from court."

"I see." Anne said neutrally, reclining in her couch and cradling Elizabeth close, managing not to smile. Whatever Henry's strengths, subtlety was not one of them. For whatever reason, he had tired of Mistress Seymour and now he wanted her to be as far away from the court as possible, and he also wanted to make it clear to her that she was sending the wench away, perhaps even convincing himself that he was doing it for _her_ sake. This was probably his idea of a peace offering, sending her rival away. "For how long do you expect to be away?"

"The King has decreed that I may never return to court." Jane said, clinging to her dignity.

Anne nodded, satisfied. "Then if the King – my husband – has ordered that you should leave our court and never return, then you should obey his orders at once." She recommended, still in the same bland tone, as though she was completely indifferent to whether Jane left within the hour or whether she stayed there until she was old and grey. "You have my leave to go at once. No further leave-taking is necessary." She pronounced in her most regal tone, waving Jane towards the door.

Had she not been holding Elizabeth in her lap, she might have informed Mistress Seymour that it was a matter of complete indifference to her whether or not Henry chose to keep his whore at court so that he might avail of her company, as he chose, but she could hardly say something like that in front of her little girl so she let Jane go, breathing a soft sigh of relief when the other woman departed.

At least she now had one problem less to worry about.

Elizabeth watched Mistress Seymour leave, feeling very puzzled about her. She couldn't tell what it was but she knew that there was something different about her, something that set her apart from the other ladies at court. She wasn't a friend of Mama's but there was _something_. "Who is she?"

"She's not important." Anne felt so relieved to be able to say this truthfully at last. "Not anymore."


	6. Chapter 6

**_18th May 1536_ **

Once Anne's trial was concluded, with the guilty verdict that all of the court expected delivered, Brandon returned to his Suffolk home at the earliest possible opportunity, wanting to forget what had happened, if he possibly could, and to spend some time with his family, away from the court and away from the rampant speculation about the true reason why Anne had been condemned, until duty demanded that he return to bear witness to Anne's execution, a task that became more and more unappealing as each passing hour filled him with fresh doubts over whether or not Anne was truly guilty, or whether it might be possible that a suggestion from his lips might have led to her, along with four innocent men, being led to the scaffold.

His wife, Catherine, for perhaps the first time since their marriage, was not somebody he could confide in about his doubts. In everything else, she was sympathetic and understanding, listening to his words with a concerned ear and offering him thoughtful, shrewd advice about what he ought to do but this situation was different.

Catherine had never liked Anne, which was understandable, given that her mother had come from Spain with Katherine of Aragon when they were both young girls, when the Spanish princess was sent to England to become Prince Arthur's bride, and given that she had served her devotedly for years, when Katherine was Princess of Wales, Dowager Princess and, finally, Queen of England, remaining a member of her household until she married. Catherine, namesake to the late Queen, inherited her mother's devotion to her and, as a result, she was far from pleased when it became apparent that the King intended to replace the good, faithful lady with Anne Boleyn, a woman she personally disliked from the moment they were introduced, and she had never been slow to sympathize with Brandon's hatred for Anne or to urge him to destroy her.

When Anne was arrested, Catherine had no trouble believing that the charges were true, finding it easy to imagine that Anne, fearful of her position when there was no living prince in the nursery, might have become desperate and unprincipled enough to seek to take a lover, knowing that if she became pregnant, if she managed to keep calm for the duration of her pregnancy, taking care to protect her health and to guard against any upsets that would harm the baby she carried, so that she might be able to produce a living son, she would be able to convince the King that the child was his get. Henry had longed for a son for so long that he would be only too delighted to be presented with what he would believe to be a legitimate son and heir, never suspecting that the child was a cuckoo, one who would secure his mother's position and usurp the throne that Catherine considered to be Princess Mary's rightful inheritance.

Brandon agreed with her at first that this could be a possibility, even though he had not suspected such a thing, even when he confided in Henry that there were disquieting rumours circulating about Anne's conduct, but after Anne was arrested, he couldn't help but begin to doubt her guilt.

At first, he put it down to pity – and Anne looked so frightened and so pathetic when he delivered her to the Tower and into Master Kingston's keeping so that she might be kept under lock and key until formal charges could be laid against her and her trial could be arranged, kept away from anybody who might sympathize with her and seek to rescue her before she could be tried and convicted, that even her bitterest enemy could not have kept himself from being moved by her obvious distress – but then he spoke to Henry, hearing his friend repeating Master Cromwell's words about Anne having had upwards of a hundred lovers and that allegation was one that he knew was simply too absurd to be true.

 _One_ lover, he could believe, just about, even though the number of attendants that Anne's rank demanded that she have around her at virtually all times meant that it would be difficult, at best, for her to manage to carry out an illicit liaison without one of them suspecting that something untoward was going on and reporting the matter, for fear of being charged as an accomplice if they failed to do so, and impossible at worst.

 _Four_ lovers, as the results of the investigations and trials would indicate was the case, pushed the bounds of credibility to breaking point, especially when Anne's own brother was numbered among the accused, together with a groom that he could not remember ever giving Anne so much as a warm smile, and when Thomas Wyatt, whom he would have considered to be the most likely suspect, given that he was convinced that the man had been her lover before she ever caught Henry's eye, was dismissed as Anne's possible accomplice after only the most cursory examination of the allegations and with no investigation to uncover any possible evidence that might be used against him. Brandon couldn't help but wonder whether Wyatt could thank his friendship with Master Cromwell and the chancellor's good opinion of him for the fact that he was spared.

Then Henry claimed to believe that Anne could have had a _hundred_ lovers or more and that was simply impossible. From a practical perspective, she could never arrange to sneak so many men into her bedchamber and he couldn't think why she would ever take the risk of trying. If her goal was to ensure that she would be able to get her lover to father a son to inherit the throne and to protect her position, then she would need to guard against the possibility that they might be discovered, or that her lover might attempt to blackmail her later, threatening to reveal their affair if she did not do as he demanded, and the only way for her to do so would be to choose only one lover, somebody who was devoted to her and who could be relied upon to lie if called upon to do so in order to protect her from being revealed as an adulteress and punished as such.

It would be stupid for her to take the risk of having more than one lover – or to have any lover, for that matter; a lack of a son might condemn her to being discarded and banished, as Katherine was before her, but she would pay for adultery with her life – and Anne certainly was not stupid.

He couldn't truly believe her to be guilty but he also couldn't help but think that, even if she was innocent, this might be the easiest way out of Henry's marital difficulties. What was the life of one woman, particularly a woman who had caused England and the monarchy far more than her share of damage, next to the security of the succession and the welfare of the country?

With Anne gone, Henry could marry Jane as soon as he wished, as nobody would deny that with both of the women who had called themselves his wives dead, he could remarry whenever and whomever he liked. He could get the son and heir he had wanted for so long and Brandon was sure that Mistress Seymour would be a far better wife for Henry, stepmother for Mary and Queen for England than Anne could ever hope to be. With Anne gone, there would be no need for Henry to draft laws to protect the position of a woman that many of his subjects considered to be nothing more than his concubine, or to execute those who refused to adhere to them, and there would be no need for him to reject potential alliances if his fellow monarchs refused to recognize Anne as Queen of England, or Anne's child as the legitimate heir to the throne ahead of Mary, something that the Emperor in particular was bound to be reluctant to do.

So he said nothing, not even to Catherine, knowing that she would never understand his doubts and thinking that she would put them down to faintheartedness now that the moment of Anne's destruction had finally arrived, that she would fear that, now that he had finally succeeded in helping to bring Anne down, now that she was brought lower than he would ever have hoped, he had come to regret it, to feel guilty over the fact that he had waged a war against a woman, utilizing weapons against which she had little, if any, defence. The allegations of misconduct he made were ugly ones, ones that would stain Anne with the mere mention of improper behaviour, and it could be very difficult to disprove gossip once it began to circulate.

Then a messenger had arrived at his Suffolk manor, breathless after a long, unbroken ride from London, bearing a letter from one of his friends at court explaining that the King had discovered that Queen Anne was entirely innocent of all the charges laid against her after all and that the Queen, along with the men who were arrested with her, were all to be released and restored to their former positions at court, with their innocence proclaimed throughout England and those who had conspired against them punished for attempting to pervert the course of justice and bring about the deaths of innocent people.

It urged him to return to court at the earliest possible opportunity and Brandon lost no time in saddling his horse and riding out, bound for Whitehall, well aware of the importance of his getting to court and speaking to Henry as soon as he could.

If Henry believed Anne to be innocent, then he would want to punish her accusers in order to save face, to prove to his people that he did not sanction the attempt made to blacken his Queen's name, and Brandon was the first man to suggest the possibility of misconduct on Anne's part, the one who set the whole, ugly affair in motion. His remarks to Henry had sparked the investigation that led to the trials and convictions and, if he was not careful, he would soon find himself as one of the scapegoats being blamed for Anne's fall.

There would certainly be plenty of blame to be shared out and the last thing he needed or wanted was for some of it to come his way.

Aware that to be forewarned was to be forearmed, he sought out his most trusted friends before his audience with the King, to learn from them all he could of the events that had transpired during his brief absence and some of what he had heard was troubling, to say the least.

Nobody was certain what exactly had prompted Henry's decision to personally investigate the matter but it was known that he had travelled to Wolf Hall to visit the Seymours on Monday evening, returned unaccompanied by any member of the family, and gone to the Tower early on Tuesday morning, to question the men who had been convicted of being Anne's lovers. Whatever they had said to him, they succeeded in convincing Henry of their innocence and the prisoners were all freed the next day.

Master Cromwell was confined to his quarters at present, as was Lady Rochford and it was anticipated that it would not be long before they were both transferred to the Tower, pending a trial as soon as suitable charges could be laid against them to punish their part in this affair. Bets were being laid that Cromwell would be a head shorter before he was many months older and even odds were being offered over whether Lady Rochford would share that fate. Those two were the ones being cried against in the streets, Cromwell as the schemer who sought to bring about the death of an innocent Queen and Lady Rochford as a bitter, jealous wife who was so angry over her husband's natural affection for his sister that she accused them of incest for it.

It was difficult to tell which one the people hated more.

No announcement was made regarding the fault that the Seymour family had committed that had so angered the King but they were stripped of virtually every honour they possessed and they were all banished from court, forbidden to return on pain of imprisonment. This order included Jane who, on Henry's orders, was forced to go to Anne to humbly beg permission to leave her service, permission that Brandon could imagine was readily granted, though not without Anne taking the opportunity to taunt the woman who, this time last week, had thought to take her place as Queen, punishing Lady Jane for daring to believe that she or her offspring could ever sit on the throne and doing so before the other ladies of her household, lest one of them should ever try to emulate Jane's ambition.

The King was furious over the fact that he had been deceived into believing Anne to be guilty and those who were known not to be friends to her or to her family were keeping their heads down and avoiding him as much as they could without it seeming obvious, for fear that his anger would settle on their heads. Most surprisingly of all, the people seemed to have decided to side with Anne, expressing their relief over the fact that she had been exonerated and muttering against Henry for allowing things to go as far as they did in the first place, instead of trusting his wife and sparing all concerned a great deal of trouble, anxiety and pain.

Part of him wanted to postpone the interview, to trust that his previous friendship with Henry would keep him from being swept up in the tide of anger he was feeling over the way this affair had played out, but Brandon knew better than to take the chance of waiting. There was a slim chance that it might soften Henry's anger towards him if he gave him the chance to cool down before he approached him but it was far more likely that it would make his friend impatient, especially if he was the one who had to send for him instead of Brandon appearing before him of his own free will, and hesitation might even be taken as proof that he had cause to feel guilty and fearful about what would happen to him now that Anne was safe.

There would also be people, those who supported the Boleyns, who would be only too eager to seize the opportunity to convince Henry that he had lied when he voiced his concerns about Anne's behaviour, deliberately making false accusations in order to destroy a woman he had never liked and, in his heart, never truly accepted as Queen. Henry knew that he was no friend to Anne and, while that may not have troubled him unduly when his own feelings towards his wife were far from warm, it would be a different matter now and he might be led to believe that Brandon was one of those who conspired against her if his enemies had a chance to reach his ear first.

He couldn't allow that to happen, especially when he was well aware that if he fell, his family would fall with him. He didn't like the thought of retreating, of feigning relief at Anne's exoneration and abandoning the idea of persuading Henry to set her aside and look elsewhere for a new bride, one who could serve him and England better, but he had to do it if he wanted to protect Catherine, Edward and the child Catherine carried. All of their futures depended on him, and even Edward, Henry's own nephew, would suffer for it if his father was branded a traitor, a man willing to bring the Queen to her death by bearing false witness against her.

Pretending that he was glad of Anne's reprieve would be a small price to pay if it meant that he could ensure his family's safety and well-being.

Henry was alone in his presence chamber when Brandon was conducted in to see him and, when he was announced, Brandon noticed that his friend did not rise to greet him or give any indication that he was pleased to see him there.

Taking his cue from the set, angry expression on Henry's face, Brandon hastened to his friend's side and dropped to one knee, the picture of humble remorse.

"I just heard, Your Majesty," he began in his most apologetic tone, keeping his eyes lowered, not daring to meet Henry's gaze until he had a better idea of how his friend was feeling. "I was shocked when I learned what had happened… horrified," he amended quickly, in case his initial choice of words was not strong enough to satisfy Henry. "When I mentioned the rumours about the Queen… I had no idea that Master Cromwell would ever dare to use those rumours – those _unfounded_ rumours – to his own ends, in order to accuse Her Majesty of crimes she had not committed." He bowed his head, praying that Henry would soften, that he would ask him to rise. When Henry said nothing, he continued speaking. "I cannot tell you how sorry and ashamed I am that it should be something that I said that was used against the Queen by her enemies… and how angry I am that my words were twisted." He added, infusing his tone with indignation.

It went against the grain for him to offer up Master Cromwell, especially since, despite the fact that he and Anne were at odds, he believed the chancellor to be a loyal servant of Henry's, one who would have been primarily motivated by what he believed Henry desired from the investigation, as a scapegoat to save his own neck but he knew that it was vital that he distance himself from the conspirators at the earliest possible opportunity, before Henry could begin to suspect that he had made the suggestion deliberately and include him in the group of people destined to be punished for it. Apologizing for the minor fault of making the suggestion, without Henry bringing up the matter first, and expressing his anger over the fact that his concern was used by others to bring Anne down gave him a chance to distance himself from everything that had happened after he spoke.

After a few moments of silence, Henry motioned for him to rise from his knees but he did not invite him to sit.

"Why did you say it, Charles?" He asked quietly. "Why did you tell me that I needed to be worried about Anne's behaviour? I would never have ordered an investigation if you hadn't said it."

Brandon was silent for a minute, wondering what he ought to say, what reason he could give that would completely deflect Henry's anger and that would ensure that he would not suspect the truth.

It was plain that he could not tell the truth, not now.

After everything that had happened, he knew that he could not explain to Henry that, although there were occasional rumours floating around the court about Anne's closeness to some of her male friends, with a couple of people taking a malicious glee in the fact that she had so few friends at court that she was forced to rely on her brother and a humble court musician as her confidants, he had heard nothing that he would have considered to be genuine cause for concern but he had intentionally exaggerated the rumours when he spoke to Henry.

Not because he wanted to see Anne, or anybody else, executed on false charges – had he known that this would be the result of his remark, he would have kept his mouth shut and never breathed a word against her – but because he knew that Henry was giving the idea of ridding himself of Anne serious consideration and because he suspected that his friend was hesitating, unable to bring himself to take the final step and part with his wife, once and for all.

Henry was a proud man and he would not want to believe that he was casting Anne aside simply because another lady had taken his fancy, or even because she had failed to provide him with the son he so desperately needed for the sake of his country's future stability. Brandon thought that his friend would need a push before he decided to end his marriage and believed that if he could show Henry that Anne's behaviour was evidence of the fact that she was incapable of behaving with the decorum her rank as Queen demanded, if he could show him that Anne's conduct was reflecting badly on Henry and the royal family as well as herself, that would be the push that would prompt him to take action, banishing Anne and installing Mistress Seymour in her place.

Henry was far from sorry to hear the suggestion, Brandon knew that much, even if he did not dare to say so aloud, not then and much less now.

Henry had seized on the suggestion as a dog might seize on a bone, and for a moment Brandon wondered if his friend might embrace him for making it. He ordered a full-fledged investigation into Brandon's remark, and at the time, Brandon thought that his friend wanted to be told that Anne was guilty. If she was guilty, then whether he had her executed or whether he spared her life and banished her to a nunnery, Henry would be a free man, free to marry the lady of his choice and to begin his family with her. If she was guilty, then things would be much easier and much more pleasant for Henry, a fact of which Brandon was sure Cromwell was well aware and that he believed had prompted the other man to fabricate the charges and evidence against her.

When Henry wept to him over the fact that the investigation had 'proven' Anne's guilt, Brandon was puzzled by it. His friend's grief at the knowledge seemed genuine, rather than feigned in order to keep up appearances before the people. Henry would have known that he could exhibit no sign of pleasure or even relief at the result of the investigation or even the trial, for fear that he would be accused of having fabricated the charges for his own ends – this was surely why he had sent Jane Seymour back to her family's home, rather than take the chance that people would see his affection towards her and draw their own conclusions about the true reason why Anne was on trial. It was essential that he comport himself as a wronged, grieving husband, devastated to learn of his wife's betrayal… but he did not need to pretend for Brandon's sake.

He would never have needed to wear a mask of grief for his sake.

Brandon knew well that Jane Seymour had caught Henry's eye and that he wanted more from her than a few nights of pleasure, thinking of her as a possible future wife. He approved of his friend's choice wholeheartedly, thinking that the lady would be a better match for him than Anne was and hoping that, given the rumours that the Seymours were secret supporters of Mary, she might even be able to persuade Henry to welcome his daughter back to court and into his life, restoring Mary as Princess. He prayed that this would prove to be the case and hoped that if he could help this romance along, even if only in a small way, it would be a way for him to begin to make amends for the fact that he had once conspired in a plot to replace Mary's mother with Anne, and that without his help, Boleyn might not have succeeded in placing his daughter on the throne, with Katherine sent into miserable exile in order to clear the path for her successor.

Henry's affection for Lady Jane and his intentions towards her were no secrets from Brandon. He was the one Henry had singled out and privately charged with the task of discreetly delivering a letter to the lady, along with a large purse of gold, one filled with enough money to lavishly cover the expenses of life at court for a lady of Jane's standing for two years or more, or else to serve as an adequate dowry when the time came for her to marry.

Somebody who did not know Henry well would undoubtedly take this an indication that his intentions towards Mistress Seymour were of the basest sort, that the letter was an invitation to her bed, that the purse was intended as a reward to her for sharing it and that the fact that he sent the purse _before_ she shared his bed or consented to do so indicated his utter confidence that she would accept the offer to become his mistress as soon as the offer was made. However, nothing could have been further from the truth.

When Henry sent the letter, he expected that Jane would refuse to accept such gifts from a married man when she was an unwed maiden. He _wanted_ her to refuse to accept them on those grounds, and for them to be sent back to him. Brandon suspected that his friend would have been deeply disappointed had he been obliged to return empty-handed, with a report that Jane willingly accepted the gifts, something that no lady of honour should ever have dreamed of doing.

Henry's delight when he learned that she had refused to accept them, asking that if he wished to make her a present of money, he should do so after she had made an honourable marriage, was unfeigned. His idealized notions of the modesty and virtue of the lady who had captured his fancy were confirmed and Henry couldn't have been happier about it.

To his mind, he had proof that Jane was a virtuous, honest lady who was truly worthy of him.

With hindsight, Brandon cynically wondered whether Jane now regretted that she had not accepted the purse of money when she had the chance to gain something by way of material goods from the King's friendship. With her family so disgraced and so much of the income they had once enjoyed lost, that sum could have been very useful to her, perhaps the only way she could be dowered well enough to enable her to make a suitable marriage, if such a thing was now possible given the way her name had been tied to the King's.

However, he was sure that, at the time, Jane was being well schooled by her family and warned not to do anything that would compromise her name and theirs, that would stain her honour and shame her family. The Seymours would never be able to compete with the Boleyns in terms of ruthless ambition but, like everybody else at court, they wanted to be able to advance and they would have had to be fools not to be aware of the dazzling prospects of the eldest daughter of the house, or not to seize the opportunity when they were presented with it. Having Jane as the King's wife could bring her family immeasurable benefits, especially if she succeeded where her predecessors had failed and managed to bear a living son and the Seymours knew it.

Henry wanted Jane to be his Queen. He believed that he could have her no other way and he had fondly believed that he did not want her if he could not have her honourably. Brandon would not have been surprised to learn that Henry was already imagining himself as the proud father of a tribe of healthy boys, some with his dark hair and others with Jane's golden fairness. With Anne found to be guilty of adultery, Henry could have the freedom he craved and he knew it, just as he knew that Brandon knew how he felt about the matter… but he had still wept when he related that Cromwell had discovered Anne's betrayal, still railed against the wife he had wanted to be rid of for betraying him with tears of rage in his eyes. Brandon was convinced that his display of emotion was genuine and he wondered if Henry had truly wanted to hear of Anne's guilt.

Could he have wanted to be told that she was innocent?

Brandon didn't know and he was worried that he might have erred when she told his friend of Anne's behaviour, afraid that Henry might come to resent him for having been the one to speak of and that he might have opened a Pandora's Box with his allegation, one that would cause untold pain to all concerned and, despite his efforts to suppress those fears, to tell himself that he had done the right thing, the only thing that Henry would ever have wanted him to do, he couldn't help but worry about it.

He couldn't say any of this to Henry, however.

To do so would only put himself in jeopardy.

Now that Henry was convinced of Anne's innocence, his conscience demanded that he find a way to acquit himself of responsibility for everything that had happened, for coming so close to signing the death warrant of an innocent woman, the mother of his child, and allowing her to be killed for a crime she had not committed. It wasn't just that Henry _wanted_ to find other people to blame for what he had almost allowed to happen, he _needed_ to find scapegoats because the alternative was to accept that he bore at least part of the responsibility for what had happened.

All Brandon could do was try to ensure that he did not become one of those scapegoats.

"I had heard rumours, Your Majesty," he began at last. "Nothing definite, and nobody was actually alleging that the Queen had taken a lover – I was shocked when I heard that the investigation uncovered that – but what I heard gave me cause for concern. The Queen's behaviour did not seem to be fitting for a lady of her station and I thought that you should know that people were whispering about her, so that you could explain to her where her conduct was lacking."

Although the explanation sounded plausible enough when he composed it in his head, once he spoke the words aloud, it seemed like a lame reason for why he would have suggested that Anne's conduct was lacking, especially when he knew that, if Henry had his way, Anne would not have worn the Queen's crown much longer and that, as far as he was concerned, the Marquess of Pembroke could behave as badly as she chose and it would be no concern of his. However, either his guardian angel or patron saint was hard at work, protecting him, or else Henry was loathe to believe ill of him because he wished to preserve their friendship but he finally nodded, accepting the explanation at face value, much to Brandon's relief.

"I won't be able to annul my marriage to her." Henry said flatly. He was not seeking Brandon's reassurance that this was not the case, that all he needed to do was wait a few months until things cooled down before instigating proceedings to dissolve his union with Anne. It was simply a statement of fact and his tone brooked no argument. "Audley, and all the other members of my Privy Council agree that the people would never stand for it and they will never accept her successor as my lawful wife, or any children of the marriage as my legitimate heirs – even if they were boys, they would still call them bastards. I wish that you had waited until you had something tangible before coming to me with it, something more than just gossip." He remarked in a quiet, cool voice, fingering a sheet of parchment on the table in front of him. "I'm stuck with her now, whether she can give me a male heir or not."

Unsure whether Henry expected him to apologize or show his sympathy over this, or whether he would take umbrage at it if he did so, Brandon remained silent, waiting for Henry to speak, to give him more of a clue about how he should be acting.

Henry lifted the sheet of parchment up, reading the short message written on it again before sighing and setting it aside.

When a groom dressed in Anne's livery arrived with a folded message bearing her seal, he leaped from his chair and hastened over to all but snatch the letter from the surprised man's hand, dismissing him with hurried thanks. He didn't even know what it was he hoped that Anne might be writing to him about, especially considering her reaction to his invitation to a banquet and his attempt to take her hand the previous day but he was certain that it must be an encouraging sign if she was willing to communicate with him, even in writing, and he tore open the letter with trembling fingers, as eager to read this message, whatever it might be, as he once was to read the responses to the love letters he sent Anne while she was at Hever.

Then he broke the seal and unfolded the parchment, revealing a short, formal note from Anne requesting that Lady Shelton and Mistress Saville should be reinstated to their positions as ladies-in-waiting in her household.

He had no objection to the idea of reinstating the two ladies; in fact, even before Anne sent him her message, he had already sent summons to both of them to return to court and to their positions in the Queen's household as soon as possible, a summons that he should have sent before Anne returned to Whitehall, but the tone of Anne's message devastated him. It was perfectly polite, a simple request for the reinstatement of two ladies and he could not even fault her penmanship, which was flawless, without any blots, unevenly formed letters or crossed-out words, but her tone was so cool, so formal that she might have been writing to a stranger.

It was a letter from Queen to King, not from a wife to her husband and, despite the fact that, if the opportunity to annul their marriage presented itself, Henry was certain that he would seize it, it still hurt him to read those cold, formal words.

Was this what his future was to be like? Trapped in marriage to a wife who treated him coldly, punishing him for what had gone wrong between them? A wife who behaved as though they were strangers instead of partners?

He never thought that a time would come when he would think fondly of the days when Anne insisted on behaving with such unseemly jealousy whenever he exercised a King's natural, traditional right to seek comfort outside the marriage bed when he so chose, presuming to dismiss a woman she knew to be his mistress without even consulting him about the decision beforehand, persisting in questioning him about his women and where he was going, though she knew well that he had no desire to speak on the matter, and even ripping a locket she knew to be a gift from him from Jane's neck... well, under the circumstances, perhaps he could not lay too much blame on her for that but the other incidents had tried his patience to no end.

At one time, it irritated him to no end that, no matter how often he tried to make it plain to her that it was none of his business what he did or who he chose to do it with, Anne refused to take the hint and leave the matter alone but now he suspected that he could parade a harem in front of her, one by one, dancing with a succession of women in turn while she sat on her throne and making it plain to her and to the whole court that he desired them and that he had every intention of bedding them without Anne so much as batting an eyelid.

He suspected that she would turn a blind eye to any affairs he had in the future, not because she had finally learned that it was her duty as wife and Queen to do so but because she simply no longer cared with whom he lay. Perhaps she might even be relieved if he had a mistress, because she would deem that to be a preferable alternative to having him share her bed.

And that was much, much worse than her previous jealousy.

"She hates me, Charles." He said softly, as much to himself as to Brandon. "She hates me."

* * *

With Elizabeth away at court, visiting her parents, Hatfield was a very quiet place, especially since most of the child's attendants had accompanied her to Whitehall, but this was a state of affairs that Mary was not entirely displeased with.

When the King's messenger arrived at Ludlow Castle two and a half years ago, bearing orders that her already reduced household was to be disbanded altogether and that she was to remove to Hatfield, where Anne's newborn daughter was being supplied with her own royal household, Mary was indignant at the suggestion that she, the rightful Princess of England and of Wales, should be expected to share a household with the Marquess of Pembroke's illegitimate daughter instead of continuing to reside at Ludlow Castle with her own retinue, as befitted her station. She was even more indignant when she read the message for herself, seeing that her proper title of Princess had been omitted and that she was instead referred to as simply the Lady Mary, the King's natural daughter, but there were further indignities awaiting her, ones that she had not anticipated.

The infant Elizabeth was proclaimed Princess of England when she was christened, a title usurped from Mary so that her baby half-sister might carry it but, not satisfied with that, the King – at Anne's urging, Mary was sure of that, unable to believe that such an order could have come from her father's heart – had ordered that, as his new daughter was to have her own establishment and royal household, Mary was to be assigned as one of the maids in waiting tending to the child, no different from any of the other ladies who would be assigned to that position, with the same duties to perform and the same rank within the baby's household.

He was her father and her King and Mary knew that owed him obedience, both as a daughter and as a subject, at least in all matters not touching her conscience. Although it would be unpleasant to have to do so, if he gave orders that she should become a member of Elizabeth's household, if he commanded that she should become one of _Anne's_ attendants, it was her duty to obey him. However, she knew well that her appointment to baby Elizabeth's household was intended to send a message to everybody, from herself to the common people to the Emperor in Spain, that the infant was the rightful Princess while Mary was nothing but a bastard and she balked at the thought of sending such a message with her compliance.

She could not allow anybody to think that she had yielded, or that she acknowledged that there was any truth to her father's claims that he had never been lawfully married to her mother, that she was a bastard, that Anne was his true wife and that his baby daughter by her was his legitimate heir until a son was born, especially when her mother was certain to hear of it if she did – there would be many people, like Anne's father, who would be only too delighted to tell her that her daughter had yielded and that she stood alone, hoping that by doing so they could bully her into yielding herself, showing her the hopelessness of her position – and to be devastated if she ever thought that Mary had given in, after all she had sacrificed to protect her daughter's rights and her position.

She could not meekly accept the orders, not without making her feelings about them plain to her father, to Anne and to everybody else who sought to advance the baby's cause and deprive herself of her rights. The letter she sent to her father, innocently asking that the 'error' regarding her proper title and dues as Princess of Wales should be corrected as soon as possible, with him confirming that she was an always had been his legitimate daughter and rightful heiress, was not answered and she had not expected it to be but all that mattered was that Mary had sent it, formally protesting her treatment and asserting her rights as the King's only trueborn child.

After that, she could go to Hatfield with a clear conscience, if not an easy heart.

She had not been at Hatfield a full hour when it became abundantly clear to her that her appointment to Elizabeth's household was intended as a punishment for her, a signal that as long as she cleaved to the truth, as long as she refused to repudiate her mother in favour of Anne and to abdicate her own rights in favour of Anne's baby daughter, her defiance would have a price. She would be a servant to the harlot's daughter, lodged in a cramped, dismal chamber and forced to wait on the child as though she was a menial, as though she was equal to the girls appointed to wait on Elizabeth, or perhaps even inferior to them – Lady Bryan's treatment of her would certainly indicate that she considered her to be lower than the other maids, and she often pointedly remarked that the other girls were at least legitimate.

They expected her to defer to little Elizabeth as the Princess of England and to treat the child with the honour a true princess deserved, yielding precedence to the infant at all times and curtseying in her presence but although she grudgingly carried out the chores she was assigned, as the King had commanded that she do so, which meant that she could not disobey, even though the chores that became increasing onerous as Lady Bryan and Elizabeth's chamberlain realized how far they could go in terms of humiliating her without redress, but she was not prepared to pretend that Elizabeth was the Princess and not herself, no matter what orders she was given to that effect.

Her father acknowledged the child as his own – though, with a mother like Anne, who could say who had truly sired her child? – and she would therefore call Elizabeth her sister, as she had once called the Duke of Richmond, her father's other bastard, her brother but she would _never_ use the title of Princess, Highness or any other royal title to refer to or address Anne's child.

They could put her to work scrubbing floors and slopping out chamber pots, they could lock her in her room for weeks on end, they could allow her only bread and water for nourishment and they could even beat her but they would never be able to force her to call Elizabeth a princess.

Eventually, they stopped pushing her, with Lady Bryan contenting herself with sharply worded reproofs about her stubbornness and even those reprimands had ceased over the past months, as Anne's position began to weaken and the ladies and servants at Hatfield knew that it might not be wise for them to continue to openly court Mary's displeasure, singling her out for slights and humiliations that she was certain to remember should she ever find herself in a position of power and influence once more, able to exact payments for her past mistreatment. With her restoration to her father's favour looking like a more real possibility than it had in years, they knew better than to continue to insult a girl who might be princess again in the not too distant future.

It was a welcome relief to be spared the worst of the slights that were once made against her but Mary knew that the reprieve might be a temporary one. Anne had had a firm hold on her father for a long time and, even if her grasp was faltering at the moment, there was no guarantee that she wouldn't be able to tighten it again, holding him firmly in her thrall and urging him to think more and more unkindly of his elder daughter, his first living child. If she was able to give him a son, then her position would be assured and Mary was not certain that Anne would not be able to call for her life if she managed this, and to bewitch Mary's father into granting her request.

Although her father came to Hatfield frequently to visit with little Elizabeth – and the child's other attendants always made a point of assuring Mary that the King was very fond of the little girl, always stressing that he cherished Elizabeth as his first legitimate child – he had never once sent for her so that he might visit with her too, despite her hopes that he would do so, and her fervent prayers that he would want to see her, the daughter he once cherished with such a devoted love, a love that she was convinced he still felt towards her in his heart, despite the efforts that Anne undoubtedly made to discourage his affection for her, hoping that she could make him forget how much he once cared for her and divert his attention and love towards her own child.

The first time she heard the beat of horses' hooves, the cries that the King's standard had been sighted and the sound of running footsteps as the members of the household hurried to prepare for the royal visit, she immediately abandoned the task Lady Bryan had assigned her, mending one of Elizabeth's tiny gowns, not caring whether the governess reproved her for it later.

She hastened to her small chamber to change into her best gown, to comb her hair and to arrange it with her finest jewelled headpiece, as close to a princess' finery as she now possessed. Once she was ready, she sat down on a chair by the window, her hands clenched in her lap to keep her from fidgeting in her excitement, a broad smile of anticipation on her face. It had been almost four years since she had seen her father and she wanted to be ready when he summoned her, ready to show him that she had grown from a child to a girl on the threshold of womanhood, a dignified princess and a daughter that any King could be proud of.

She was so sure that, once he was finished admiring baby Elizabeth, he would ask to see her, instructing Lady Bryan to bring his daughter to him at once, indignantly demanding to know why his Mary, his pearl of the world, had not been brought in when he and his retinue were sighted so that she could be there to receive him, reproving the governess for not realizing that he had come to Hatfield to see her too, not just the baby.

She was so sure that if she could speak with him, even if only for quarter of an hour, she could bring him to his senses, make him see the error of his ways. She was certain that all she would have to do would be to show him the room where she was forced to lodge and that this would make him furious with Lady Bryan for daring to treat a King's daughter so shabbily and that it would be enough to make him assure her that she no longer needed to dwell at Hatfield as a servant, that she was to have her own household at Ludlow once more or to return to court, whichever she preferred.

She hoped that when she spoke to him, she would also be able to remind him that her mother, who was then suffering in isolation and poverty at the More, was his true and loving wife and to make him see that he should restore his lawful wife and daughter to their rightful places, casting aside the usurpers and reuniting his family once more.

All she needed was a chance to remind him of how much he had once loved them, before Anne appeared on the scene and ruined everything. All she needed was for him to call to see her.

But he didn't send for her.

Through the panelled wall separating her from the reception room, she could hear her father warmly thanking Lady Bryan for her care of his beloved princess and, at the thought that this term no longer referred to her, that he was speaking of Elizabeth instead, Mary felt her heart clench in her chest and she came very close to weeping or crying out in dismay. She was angry and devastated to be displaced in her father's affections by Elizabeth, just as Elizabeth's mother had usurped her mother's rightful place in her father's heart and by his side. She heard him greet the child affectionately, as his Elizabeth, his voice tender, infused with love and pride, and she heard him remark that one day, little Elizabeth might preside over Empires and, placing her ear to the door and straining to hear, she could hear her father's soft whisper as he asked Elizabeth to forgive him, as he could not stay long.

Why was he asking the baby to forgive him? She was too young to be truly aware of the fact that he had come to visit in the first place! Where was his apology for the humiliation that he had heaped on Mary by forcing her to act as Elizabeth's servant? Where was his apology over the fact that he had not even taken the trouble to exchange a few words with his eldest child?

When she shut her eyes, she could picture her father kissing Elizabeth's soft cheeks or downy head as he said goodbye, stroking her silky hair and committing her tiny face to memory before her passed her off to her wet nurse, then the sound of retreating footsteps told her that her father was truly going to leave, without troubling to take the time to greet her.

She ran from her chamber, ignoring the gasps of astonishment from Elizabeth's ladies and the disapproval on Lady Bryan's stern face, running out of the room and up the stairs as fast as she could, hoping that she would be able to reach the balcony overlooking the courtyard before her father and his retinue departed. She reached it in time, stepping into the light and looking straight at her father, praying that he would see her, that he would decide to postpone his departure long enough to speak with her for a few minutes, hoping that he would not snub her before his gentlemen by ignoring her mute appeal, showing her and everybody present that he no longer cared anything for her, news that was guaranteed to be carried to Anne's ears by the gleeful tongues of those who wished her well or who sought her friendship.

After a few moments, he acknowledged her. He did not speak to her – perhaps Anne had induced him to give his word that he would not, and her father felt obligated to keep his promise to her – but he bowed to her, prompting the gentlemen in his train to follow his example, and she curtsied in response, elated by this sign that he still thought fondly of her, that he had not forgotten how much he loved his pearl, the daughter he once described as his perfect princess.

But he didn't send for her the next time he visited.

Or the next...

It was Anne, the last person she wanted to see, who broke the long months of silence, sending for her when she came to visit Elizabeth.

_Although Mary knew that she must have seen Anne before, she could not remember what she looked like._

_When Mary was a little girl, Anne served as one of her mother's ladies for a brief time and she knew that she must have seen her then, at least in passing, as she saw all of her mother's ladies from time to time, when she visited her mother's rooms or when she attended revels at which her mother and her attendants would be present. However, her memories of Anne were vague at best, and she could never be sure whether it was Anne she remembered when she tried to picture the woman or if she was confusing her with somebody else, one of the many other women who once served her mother when she was still recognized as Queen, as she still ought to be by rights._

_Back then, Mary would never have predicted that a time would come when one of her mother's ladies-in-waiting would be able to wreak such havoc on all their lives. Why would she ever have imagined that she needed to pay more attention to Anne than she did to her mother's other attendants, back in the days when Anne was still one of many, no more important than the others?_

_She had heard descriptions of her, of course._

_There were many descriptions of Anne circulating and those descriptions varied a great deal, with some people insisting that she was plain, almost ugly, and that the only way she could ever have captured the attentions of a handsome, lusty man like Mary's father, a man who could have any woman he wanted for the asking, was through witchcraft, but others insisted that she was a true beauty, one of the loveliest ladies at court and certainly the wittiest and the most graceful, a lady who showed the full benefits of her French education, who excelled in dancing and who set the fashions at court with her stylish gowns and headpieces._

_Chapuys described Anne as plain of feature, too thin and too dark for fashion, though he begrudgingly owned that her eyes were lovely. If he was to be believed, Anne possessed few natural charms and the King's attraction to her was a complete mystery._

_Mary would have dearly liked to believe that he spoke the truth, to believe that the harlot who had seduced her father away from her mother and tempted him into such hideous sins against her mother and against God Himself was plain, a woman who could never hope to be as pretty as her mother, who was still beautiful, even though she was no longer young, but she suspected that her father was unlikely to be attracted to Anne if that was the case. With so many beautiful women who would be happy to be with him if he wanted them to, she couldn't imagine an unattractive woman ever managing to capture his love and hold it for so long. Anne had to have some charms that would allow her to win him, and to keep him as her devoted servant for so long._

_When she saw Anne, she was sorry to see that the woman was beautiful; perhaps not the most beautiful lady at court but Mary suspected that, when she chose, Anne was able to make Mary's father and any other man she chose believe that she was the most beautiful and captivating woman God had ever made. She was honest enough to own that the woman was attractive, and that she possessed more than her share of charm, but she was proof against it, even if her father had fallen prey to it._

_Anne would never be able to charm her into forgetting what she had done to Mary's family._

_When Lady Bryan came to tell her that the Queen had come to visit Hatfield and commanded her presence downstairs, Mary was very tempted to point out that this could not possibly be the case, as England's only Queen was far away at the More and forbidden to contact her daughter, by the King's express command, a command that she would not disobey, even if the separation broke her heart, but she thought better of the gesture._

_There was no way that Lady Bryan or any of the other members of Elizabeth's household would ever be willing to deliver a message like that to Anne on her behalf. They would know how she was likely to react if they dared to repeat those words, knowing that they could easily find themselves paying the price for being the bearer of such a message, one she was sure to deem insulting._

_Lady Bryan would make up some innocuous excuse for why she could not come down to pay her respects, claiming that she was ill and perhaps even delivering a humble apology on Mary's behalf in order to appease Anne's vanity and pride and, once Anne was gone, the governess would deliver a blistering tongue-lashing for Mary's rudeness, railing at her before the others, who would giggle to see her in disgrace, and perhaps even curtailing the few privileges and freedoms she was still allowed as punishment for her words._

_They would all refuse to acknowledge that she was only speaking the truth._

_Besides, she had to admit that she was curious about what Anne could possibly wish to say to her, curious enough to prompt her to nod in response to Lady Bryan's message without saying a word, and follow the governess into the main chamber, where Anne was visiting her baby._

_"Lady Mary."_

_Although her tone was gentle, with her first words, Anne ensured that Mary would not happily receive anything she had to say. Even if Anne could not bring herself to use her rightful title of Princess or to address her as 'Your Highness', as her rank demanded, Mary expected was that she should be addressed as 'Your Grace' or, at the very least, 'madam' but instead Anne insisted on insulting her with a bastard's title, the title she had induced Mary's father to decree should be hers from now on. She was able to restrain herself enough to keep herself from turning and stalking out of the room, refusing to stay in the company of somebody who insisted on denying her the title and honours that were hers by rights, but she knew that if she did this, Anne was bound to report the slight to Mary's father, who was certain to side with his concubine and who would be furious with his daughter for defying his express commands and for treating the woman he insisted on calling his Queen so disrespectfully._

_"Lady Mary, I am here in kindness," Anne said coaxingly, as though she was trying to persuade a naughty, obstinate child to behave herself. She also spoke slightly more slowly than normal, as though she believed Mary to be lacking in intelligence and understanding, as though she needed to spell her offer out if she was to be understood. "I would welcome you back to court and reconcile you with your father, if you will only accept me as Queen." She smiled encouragingly when she finished speaking, waiting for Mary's response. She was probably sure that, after living a servants' life for the past couple of months, Mary would be all too eager to seize the opportunity to return to a comfortable life at court as the King's daughter, even if she was called a bastard, and probably already imagining how pleased the King would be with her for managing to secure his daughter's capitulation._

_"Only" accept her as Queen?_

_Only!_

_The way Anne made her proposal, anybody would have thought that her suggestion was the most reasonable one in the world, as though it was a great concession on her part to offer even that much, as though Mary should get down on her bended knees and thank her father's mistress for her kindness in offering to welcome her – the Princess of Wales! – back to the court where she, along with her mother, should still be living, should still be honoured as they once were, as they ought to be by rights._

_Anybody would have thought that Anne was asking little of Mary in return for her offer of restoration to court and to favour, as though it was a small thing to expect her to repudiate her mother by accepting Anne as Queen in her place, as though it was little enough to ask of her that, by doing so, she all but proclaim her illegitimacy to the world, living a lie by pretending that her parents' marriage was truly accursed and, by extension, to strengthen Anne's position, and Elizabeth's, immeasurably by allowing herself to be seen to defer to the harlot as Queen._

_Anne might be able to convince herself that the concession she was offering was a fair one, one that all concerned would benefit from it Mary accepted her proposal but she and her daughter had far more to gain from it than Mary did and Mary was not such a fool that she could not see exactly how her mother's rival, along with Anne's bastard child, would benefit from her submission and she would never allow that to happen._

_How dare Anne even think of asking that of her!_

_Mary couldn't keep the scorn or dislike from her face or her voice as she answered, her tone leaving Anne in no doubt that she meant every word she said. "I recognize no Queen but my mother," she stated flatly. She probably should have stopped there, contenting herself with that and refraining from openly antagonizing the woman, who had the power to make her life very unpleasant if she chose to do so, by offering any further insult but something inside her pushed her to continue, to speak the words she knew would wipe the smile off Anne's face and let her know, in no uncertain terms, where she stood in Mary's esteem. "But if the King's mistress would intercede with the King on my behalf, then I would be grateful."_

_The smile faded from Anne's face as abruptly as if Mary had slapped her across the face – something she dearly longed to be able to do but knew better than to try – and it was with immense satisfaction that Mary walked away, happy to know that there was no way that Anne could cherish any hope that she could be induced to change her mind._

Needless to say, Anne had not sent for her again and, during the woman's visits, Lady Bryan made sure to keep Mary safely out of sight, commanding her to remain in her own chamber as long as Anne was at Hatfield, for fear of a repetition of the incident, one that she might be blamed for if Anne felt that she should have done more to prevent it by breaking Mary's rebellion – as though Lady Bryan, or anybody else, could ever have forced her to capitulate!

Mary would not have minded this – after all, she had no desire to see Anne and was quite happy not to be obliged to do so – but she was also kept out of sight when her father visited, and it pained her to know that he had never once asked that she should be brought down to see him or, to the best of her knowledge, even enquired about her health or welfare, or instructed Lady Bryan to see to it that she was treated with respect and kindness, as a King's daughter ought to be.

It was as though he truly cared nothing for her welfare, as though he was content to stand by and allow his own flesh and blood to be humiliated, neglected and insulted.

Little Elizabeth was invited to court fairly often, as Anne loved her daughter deeply and wanted to be able to spend as much time with her as she could, lavishing her daughter with her time and attention whenever they were able to be together and with expensive presents and beautifully embroidered gowns and caps, some of them made with her own hands, when they were parted but, despite the fact that most of Elizabeth's attendants travelled with her when she went to Whitehall, especially when she was going to be staying at the court for more than a couple of days and would need her retinue there to tend to her needs, Mary was never brought to court with them, she was never even offered the opportunity to join them.

It was made plain to her that she was not welcome at court and that even her father had no desire to see her, and this knowledge was painful.

There were advantages to Elizabeth being away, though.

With most of the other ladies gone with the child, and when the little girl she was supposed to be tending was absent, meaning that her duties were suspended until she returned, Mary's time was largely her own and, without Lady Bryan there to stress her bastard status and to single her out for sharp words and onerous tasks, she found that the other members of Elizabeth's household who were left behind tended to treat her more respectfully, aware of the fact that royal blood flowed through her veins and in awe of the fact that she was the daughter of the King, even if she was being called a bastard. They might not have dared to accord her the dues of a princess, as this was now treason under the law, but they were polite to her and considerate of her needs.

Elizabeth's absences were periods of respite, where she was not faced with as many daily reminders of her status as a servant and where she could pretend, even for a while, that she was still recognized as the Princess of England, that she was still her father's pearl and that her future was still golden, instead of being bleak and uncertain.

When her mother died, she was devastated to lose her and distraught that she had not even had the chance to say goodbye to her in person, knowing that this would have been the greatest comfort her mother would have wanted in her final hours, that she herself would have given anything to be able to receive her mother's blessing and hating Anne, who had surely been the one to refuse to take pity on a dying mother and her grieving daughter and to insist that no visit could be allowed. However, as deep as her grief was, she recognized a slight softening in her father's attitude towards her once her mother died, one that came and went but that was still the most encouraging sign she had had since she first came to Hatfield.

When she was ill, he gave orders that she should be excused from her duties in Elizabeth's household and removed to one of the royal manors for her comfort during her illness and recuperation and, as well as that, she heard through Chapuys' secret communications that her father was beginning to give the idea of her betrothal serious consideration, especially since other royal houses were far more interested in her, a girl ripe for marriage, with ties by blood to the Holy Roman Emperor and to the King of Portugal, than they were in Elizabeth, a little child whose mother was descended from merchants – and her father surely knew as well as she did that he would never be able to induce any royal suitor to accept her hand in marriage unless he acknowledged her as a legitimate princess and acknowledged her right to a place in the line of succession. Even a large dowry would not induce a prince to wed a bastard.

Then came the news that Anne had miscarried a male child, a sign that God had deserted her once and for all, and one that even Mary's father seemed to be able to see. A few months later, news of Anne's arrest reached Hatfield, news that Mary took as a sign from God, clear evidence that the noose was tightening around Anne's neck at last, a trap that even she, for all her cunning and all her witchcraft, would not be able to escape from, not this time.

Anne had led Mary's father, and England, a merry dance but the time had finally come for her to reap what she had sowed and it was a bitter harvest.

Her treason was discovered, at least in part – the charges laid against her made no mention of the fact that Anne had poisoned Mary's mother, and plotted to do the same to Mary herself – and she was sentenced to death. The sentence called for her to be burned or beheaded at the King's pleasure and Mary prayed that her father's anger over the way the harlot had made a fool of him for so long, causing him to commit such hideous crimes for her sake, to cast aside his loving daughter, to murder honest men and to commit heresy by breaking with the pope in Rome would prompt him to decide that she should die by fire, a fitting fate for a whore and a witch and a taste of the agony that she would surely be met with in Hell, the moment her soul left her body.

Once Anne was gone, once her father was free, then it was only a matter of time before Mary was restored.

She spared a thought for little Elizabeth, who was still so young and who would surely be devastated to lose the mother who was devoted to her and who always showered her with affection and spoiled her with rich gifts but she reminded herself that, in the long term, it was better this way for everybody, Elizabeth included. She was not yet three now, still sweet and innocent but it was only a matter of time before Anne managed to corrupt her, as she corrupted everything she touched. If Anne lived, if she continued to be an influential factor in Elizabeth's upbringing, she would inevitably have taught her daughter her ways, infecting Elizabeth's childish innocence and light with her darkness.

With Anne gone, Mary would be able to see to it that the little girl was brought up properly, to love and honour God and to know her place in the world, as a bastard rather than as a princess.

She would be kind to Elizabeth, she resolved. She would never allow her feelings towards Anne to affect the way she treated the woman's child and she would not allow the fact that Elizabeth had been honoured with the titles that belonged to her by rights, or the fact that she had been humiliated for the child's sake for so long to colour her feelings towards the little girl, now or in the future. She would continue to love her and to have a care for her welfare. It was likely that she would need to have somebody who would speak for her and take an interest in her upbringing, now that her mother was disgraced, soon to be dead, if she was not already.

She had heard very little about the woman who had captured her father's attentions, the woman whose sweet nature was able to act as an antidote to Anne's poison, freeing her father from the harlot's thrall after so many years but what little she had heard was very promising.

It was whispered that Jane Seymour was loyal to Mary's mother and that, though her family had taken the Oath of Succession out of policy, as loyal servants of the King, they continued to regard Mary as the rightful heiress to the throne, for all their promises to champion little Elizabeth's false claim should the need to do so arise. It had also been suggested that Lady Jane intended to prevail upon the King to restore Mary to her rightful place as the legitimate heir to the throne, and that she would be delighted to welcome her to court as Princess.

Other courtiers, seeing the way the wind was blowing, had already written to Mary, expressing their pleasure at the thought that she might soon be restored to her father's good graces and welcomed back to court, promising that if there was any service they could do for her, she needed only to ask and it would be their greatest honour and pleasure to help her however they could.

Nobody would have dared to write such a letter to her a few months ago, knowing that if they did and if the King learned of it, his anger towards those who went behind his back to court the daughter he had declared to be a bastard, ineligible for the title of Princess and without any rights to succeed to the throne, would be terrible. That they dared to write now was a clear sign that Mary could soon expect her father to welcome her back to court, and into his heart.

With such optimistic prospects, it was scarcely surprising that Mary's step was light as she walked through the gardens of Hatfield, with the two attendants who had been assigned to serve her after the harlot was arrested, a time when orders were sent that she was to be moved to a much larger and much more comfortable apartment, following at a discreet distance. The day was a warm one and she enjoyed the sensation of the May sunshine caressing her face, imagining what the gardens at Whitehall, where she once played with her mother, would look like now and eagerly anticipating the moment when she would see them for herself again.

When she saw Ambassador Chapuys approach, she quickened her pace, hastening towards him, eager to hear what she was sure he was about to tell her.

"Your Highness." He bowed low before her, accepting her hand when she offered it to him and kissing it, according her the dues of a princess, as he always did, a gesture she deeply appreciated, especially when she knew that it could be dangerous for anybody, even the Imperial ambassador, to treat her as a Princess of England ought to be treated when her royal father had himself declared her to be a bastard. "I hope you are well, Princess?" He asked solicitously.

"Very well." She responded automatically, keen to hear the news she was sure was forthcoming. When he didn't speak, she prompted him. "Is it done? Is the harlot dead?" Perhaps it was foolish of her to worry but, after everything that had happened, she didn't think that she would be able to breathe easily until she knew that Anne had taken her last breath, that until she knew that the woman was gone, unable to continue to work against her or to renew her hold over her father, she could not be discounted as a possible threat. When Chapuys did not respond, she frowned, troubled. "Ambassador?" She asked, bewildered.

"I have some bad news for you, Your Highness." Chapuys began gently, lowering his voice so that Mary's attendants could not overhear his words. "The Concubine is not to be executed after all."

"My father has spared her?" Mary's brow furrowed in a scowl as she tried to imagine why her father would show such clemency to a woman who had betrayed him as blatantly as Anne had, wondering if he might be shrinking at the thought of condemning the mother of his child to death – and perhaps mercy was no bad thing, even if that mercy was directed at Anne, who certainly did not deserve it. Perhaps such clemency reflected well on her father, a sign that despite the fact that he had signed the death warrants of so many good men, men who only opposed him because their consciences would not allow them to support his actions, there was still goodness and kindness in him, enough to allow him to be merciful. "Is he to send her to a nunnery?"

It was almost fitting that that should be the case, given the efforts made to pressure Mary's mother into entering a nunnery in order to free her father to marry Anne. Anne had made no objections to the idea of the rightful Queen of England being pressured to take the veil for her sake, to allow her to usurp her place and to secure the legitimacy of the children she bore, so she would be justly served if she was now forced to become a nun herself.

She felt a chuckle rising at the thought of Anne Boleyn, a temptress if ever one drew breath, a vain Jezebel who cared far more for fine gowns and jewels than a God-fearing woman ought to and a heretic with known Lutheran leanings, spending the rest of her days in a religious community, among good, pious women, like the wild, untamed falcon she used as her badge mewed up with peaceful, cooing doves.

If that was to be the case, if Anne was to escape execution and be permitted to live out her days in a religious house, Mary hoped that her father would not select a light, fashionable order, one where the high-born ladies who dwelt within the order, ostensibly as Brides of Christ, were permitted to enjoy all the comforts that they would have enjoyed in the outside world, allowed to receive guests, to keep pets and, in some cases, even to have lovers, provided they were discreet about it. It would be far more fitting for Anne to be sent to a strict, closed order, one with a rigorous regime of prayer, work and fasting, one where she would be shut away from men for the rest of her life and where none of her nonsense would be tolerated by the abbess in whose charge she would be placed.

It would be for Anne's own good, Mary reminded herself piously, making the sign of the cross and telling herself that her desire was not one motivated by spite and a hope that Anne's life would be one of misery. If that harlot wanted to have any hope of escaping the fires of Hell, if she wanted to have any hope of attaining Heaven, then she would need to begin to make amends for all of the sins she had committed without delay, and it was only through prayer, penance and genuine repentance that she would be able to do this. Serving God as a nun would be a beginning, at least.

Chapuys shook his head in response to her question, looking deeply uncomfortable.

"What then?" Mary asked, beginning to feel troubled about the ambassador's demeanour.

"Your Highness..." Chapuys began speaking but his voice failed him and he had to swallow several times before he could continue. "Your Highness, the King... His Majesty investigated the matter personally and he has determined that..." He trailed off again, hating the thought of having to be the one who had to break this news to Mary but knowing that it was far better that she hear it from him, somebody she knew to be her friend, than from somebody who would taunt her with the news, gleefully stressing what a blow this would be for her hopes. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes, unable to look at her as he said what he must say. "The King no longer believes the harlot to be guilty of betraying him. He has given orders that her innocence is to be proclaimed throughout the country and he has brought her back to court with him... as his Queen."

Mary gave a short, barking laugh, willing herself to believe that the ambassador was pulling her leg, needing to believe that his words were nothing more than an ill thought jest.

It could not be true!

She was so sure that Anne's sins had finally brought her to her well-deserved punishment, so sure that this time – thanks, in no small part, to Jane Seymour who was now the focus of the King's attentions – she would not be able to charm her way out of trouble. She had been tried before a panel of peers, the men accused of being her lovers had been tried and all five of them had been found guilty, with two of the men even confessing to their crimes.

What could possibly have persuaded her father, after all that, to believe that Anne might be innocent?

What kind of power did she have over him, preventing him from ordering her execution and forcing him to ignore what he knew about her guilt, to free her and to proclaim her innocence? Of course, once she did that, she must know that the King would not be able to turn around and order her execution if her spell faltered. He would look like a fool in front of his people and that was something that he could never allow. Anne had escaped her punishment.

Mary shuddered at the thought, feeling an icy chill wash through her veins. It was a few minutes before she recovered enough to speak. "How could my father believe that she could be innocent?" She asked, bewildered. "Two of the men confessed – and one of them was a gentleman!" She was realistic and honest enough to admit the possibility that the musician's confession could have been forced from him through torture but the other man to confess, Master Brereton, was a gentleman, exempted from the torture meted out to lowborn prisoners by virtue of his rank. If he had confessed, then he had surely done so because honesty prompted him to speak, preventing him from keeping his secret and Anne's any longer, even if they both died for it.

"Yes," Chapuys agreed grimly.

Brereton had sought him out shortly after his release, in great distress. When the investigation into Anne's alleged misconduct began, Brereton had had the sense to be able to recognize that God was handing him the opportunity to rid the world of the harlot, once and for all, and he had not hesitated to seize that opportunity. He had confessed and, when the King came to question him about his confession two days ago, he had held fast to his story but the details he had supplied had not convinced the King that he was telling the truth and his evidence was taken as proof of Anne's innocence rather than the reverse, much to his dismay. After reproving him for what he believed to be cowardice at the thought of being tortured – and who could ever have imagined the true reason why Brereton was so willing to confess to a crime he had not committed? – the King ordered that he should be released along with the others and Brereton had confided in Chapuys that he intended to travel to Rome as soon as possible, to seek shelter with the Holy Father and to beg his forgiveness for his failure in carrying out the holy task he was charged with.

He could no longer bear to stay at court after his failure, knowing that if he did, he would have to endure the spectacle of Anne's restoration to power and security and, under the circumstances, nobody would be surprised if he chose to withdraw from court, after his experience in the Tower. They would assume that he was leaving because he was angry and unhappy over the fact that he was accused and arrested in the first place, and that he had come so close to being executed for a crime he had not committed. They would never imagine that he was upset that he was _not_ to die... or, more accurately, that Anne was not to die with him.

"And he _still_ believes her to be innocent?"

"Yes, Your Highness."

If he was honest with himself, Chapuys had to admit that he could easily believe that Anne had not been guilty of adultery. Not only was she an intelligent woman, one who would surely know that betraying her supposed husband in that manner would bring about her ruin, he also couldn't help but see that the timing was far too convenient for comfort; he and Cromwell had been speaking of the prospect of an Imperial alliance for the past few months, and he had made his position plain to the other man. The Emperor was willing to support the continuation of the King's marriage to Anne – a great concession on his part, especially given that he had respected his aunt and been fond of her – but only if the King would restore relations with Rome and restore Princess Mary as his legitimate heir. Chapuys could read people well and he believed that the Lord Chancellor was eager for the alliance, so eager than when it became evident that Anne's presence would act as a barrier to that alliance, he was not entirely astonished when 'evidence' of her infidelity was suddenly uncovered.

However, even if Anne had not been unfaithful – and, as Chapuys did not consider her to be the King's lawful wife, to his mind, she could not have committed adultery even if she had had lovers – that did not mean that he did not think that she should die. She might not have betrayed the King by taking other men to her bed but she had committed far worse crimes, and her poisoning of the late Queen Katherine certainly merited her execution.

Mary's expression was doleful as she digested Chapuys' words, her agile mind quickly combing through the possibilities, wondering what this would mean for her. She could feel her chances of restoration slipping away from her and her heart sank at the thought. "Then my hopes are over." She said bleakly, looking up at Chapuys and praying that he would contradict her, assure her that this was not the case, that Anne's deliverance from death would not place an insurmountable barrier between her and the restoration of her rights, that it was a minor obstacle at best.

Chapuys hesitated before answering, only for a moment but it was long enough for Mary to notice. "The Emperor is still determined to do all he can to ensure Your Highness' restoration to the succession." He told her. "If the King still hopes for an alliance, then he will know that such an alliance will be conditional on your being restored to your rightful place as heir, ahead of the brat, Elizabeth." Even as he said it, he knew that this might not necessarily be the case; the Emperor and the King of France were currently in conflict over Milan, which meant that each monarch would be eager to secure the support of the King of England against the other. If it looked as though the King would rather ally with France – and King Francis would certainly impose no such conditions for Mary's benefit – then it was possible, even likely, that the Emperor might choose not to continue to press for her restoration. However, this was not something that Mary needed to hear, not now. "And," he added optimistically, hoping to boost the poor girl's spirits, "my sources tell me that the Concubine has behaved foolishly since her release; she has treated the King very coldly, and blames him for her arrest. The King has not shown his anger yet but it is my belief that he will lose patience with her behaviour before very long and, when that happens, he will no longer worry about pandering to her feelings by refusing to restore you, Your Highness."

Mary could imagine how Anne must be behaving, picturing how sulky and resentful she would be over the fact that she had been arrested, instead of being thankful for the reprieve.

Under these circumstances, a sensible woman would go out of her way to make herself pleasant to Mary's father, showing herself to be thankful for the fact that she was a free woman once more and making sure that he was given no cause to regret that he had spared her life but, while Anne might be clever, she would never be sensible. She would make resentment known and she would not care about the consequences.

"The people will want to see me restored." She predicted brightly; the English people had sided with her and with her mother from the very beginning and she was sure that they would call for her restoration now. With Anne treating the King with scorn, he would be far from eager to appease her and to pander to her whims, and he had always craved the good will of his people. She was certain that he would want to restore her, to please the people and to spite the harlot and, most importantly of all, because, in his heart, he knew that this was the right thing for him to do, the thing he wanted to do.

Chapuys smiled but he did not nod in response.

To his surprise and great dismay, it seemed as though many of the English people had come to think much more fondly of the King's concubine since her arrest, which had prompted them to side with the woman they once reviled. Few believed that she could be guilty of the crimes alleged against her and, during the weeks between her arrest and her release, he had heard them cry out in support of her with his own ears, heard them muttering against the King and against Mistress Seymour and whispering that it was not justice that brought the Queen – the title they once denied Anne but seemed to be all too willing to apply to her now – to the scaffold but the King's lust for the prim, sly Seymour woman.

Before Anne's arrest, there was great discontent over the King's refusal to recognize Princess Mary as legitimate and his insistence on denying her the title that was hers from birth but, once the woman was locked in the Tower, the people's concern shifted to little Elizabeth, and their pity was directed at the toddler who looked likely to be motherless before her third birthday, rather than her elder half-sister.

Anne's position as Queen was secure, much as Chapuys hated to admit it. In the wake of the public sympathy her plight had excited after her arrest, the King would not be able to annul his marriage to her, something he must surely have accepted when he chose to proclaim her innocence. If Anne was Queen, then her child was legitimate and, if Elizabeth was widely accepted as legitimate, then Mary's legitimacy would have to be called into question. Both of the King's marriages could not be considered lawful, since the second union was solemnized while his first wife lived, and one daughter would have to be branded illegitimate.

He wasn't certain whether Mary could rely on the people's support for her being as strong as it once was, especially if Anne and her supporters were shrewd enough to see that they could exploit that support to further strengthen her position and her child's, and to weaken Mary's.

He did not say so, however, not wanting to rob Mary of hope until he knew for certain.

"I will do all I can for you, Your Highness." He pledged instead. "You may rely on me."

* * *

He heard the sound of laughter before he saw them, Elizabeth's laughter, high-pitched with excitement, and he found himself walking towards the sound, smiling involuntarily at the sound of his little daughter's delight.

How could he have ever thought that Elizabeth might not be his child?

She was a Tudor to her very bones, intelligent and spirited, brave and with a love of life. She was her mother's daughter too, witty, graceful and charming, already showing signs that she would be a beautiful woman one day, just like Anne. She combined the best qualities of both of her parents, and was a lovely child, the jewel of England, perfect in every way… in every way but one, at least.

Had Elizabeth been a boy, she would be all that he could ever have wished for in a child, or in an heir.

God had been so generous when it came to bestowing gifts on his little daughter, surely He would have been even more generous with a son. If his blood had mingled with Anne's to create such a remarkable daughter, then a son born from them would truly be a wonder to behold… if they were ever blessed with a boy, that is.

If God intended to allow them male issue, He was being remarkably slow about it. Over three years of marriage and all they had to show for it was one girl – an amazingly gifted girl, Henry freely acknowledged this, but a girl none the less – and two miscarriages, two chances at a strong son snatched away before the pregnancies had a chance to come to term. He suppressed the nagging reminder that, but for Anne's mischance in finding him with Mistress Seymour, the second miscarriage might have been avoided, with the boy being carried to term and born strong and healthy, a fine Prince of Wales. Instead he remembered his words to Anne and to Cromwell after the baby was lost, his conviction that it was proof that they would not be granted male issue and his resolve to dissolve their marriage and take another wife.

That was out of the question now, he knew that.

Anne was his wife and his Queen and she would remain that until the day one of them died but Henry couldn't ignore the stark knowledge that, if Anne failed to bear him a living son – or perhaps any other living child – then Elizabeth would be his only lawful heir, England's next Queen.

That might not be such a bad thing, Henry told himself as he came closer and could hear Elizabeth's laughter more clearly. His daughter was a beautiful, winning child, clever and healthy, with a strong mind and a strong body. His daughter would be a finer heir than any other man's son could ever be, he was sure of that but he still could not feel fully at ease with the thought of leaving Elizabeth as his sole heir.

She wasn't a son.

For all her excellent qualities, she was not a son and he couldn't help but worry about whether the weight of the crown was one that would prove to be too heavy to be carried by a female, however gifted she might be.

He circled the shrubberies, catching sight of Anne and Elizabeth but he hung back, watching them from behind a concealing bush.

There was no sign of Lady Bryan. Anne must have dismissed their daughter's governess so that they could be alone, though he noted that two of Anne's ladies were present, close enough to be able to observe them but far enough away to allow them to play together, unhindered. Anne's dog, a white bundle of fur that she doted on, was with them and Elizabeth was amusing herself by throwing a soft leather ball to the little animal, squealing in delight as it ran after it, picking it up and trotting back to her with its prize firmly clamped between its jaws.

"Look, Mama!" Elizabeth pried the ball, which Henry imagined must be wet with the dog's drool, from the animal's mouth and held it out for Anne to take. "Your turn." She told her solemnly.

Henry watched as Anne, usually a fastidious woman with scant patience for dirt or grime of any kind, accepted the ball without hesitation, seeming to be completely untroubled by the possibility of dirt, tossing it a few yards so that the dog could tear after it. The dog yapped in excitement as it tore after the ball, running as fast as its short legs could carry it and almost tumbling in its eagerness to fetch the toy and to carry it back to its mistress.

Henry watched, smiling but the scene was a bittersweet one.

He could not help but be aware of the fact that, if he had signed Anne's death warrant when he first set out to do so, if he had not travelled to Wolf Hall and heard Jane's words, words that convinced him to take a closer look at the allegations made against Anne and that had indirectly led him to learn of her innocence, she was likely to be dead by now, or within a matter of days at the most, and he would have been the one who condemned an innocent woman to death, robbing his own daughter of the love of her devoted, adoring mother. In all likelihood, he would have married Jane, not knowing how unworthy she was to be his wife, his Queen or the mother of his sons, and though he had to own that she was a kind woman, one who would surely have treated her new little stepdaughter with kindness and consideration, she would never have been able to fill the void that Anne's death would leave in Elizabeth's life.

By sparing Anne's life and proclaiming her innocence, he had tied himself to her, a possibly barren wife, for the rest of his life, perhaps giving up his chance to have a legitimate son, but he had also ensured that Elizabeth would continue to enjoy Anne's love and devotion, instead of rendering his innocent child motherless with a few strokes of the pen.

Was the sacrifice of his chance to have a son worth it if he was able to shield Elizabeth from the pain of losing a loving mother?

Henry honestly did not know.

Anne's laughter mingled with Elizabeth's at the dog's antics and Henry found himself yearning to join them, to share in their game and in their joy, to feel as though he was a part of the world they shared, as he ought to be, to complete the trinity of Man, Woman and Child with his family but, although he wanted to step forward, to reveal his presence to them, he hesitated.

Would they welcome him or would they view his arrival as an intrusion into their game?

Would they be happy to have him join them or would his presence cast a shadow over their merriment, silencing their laughter and rendering all three of them uncomfortable in one another's presence.

How would his daughter react if he suddenly revealed his presence?

The last time he saw Elizabeth, his daughter was in her mother's arms as Anne carried her through the gardens to plead with him – had he listened to her then, how much pain and difficulty might he have spared himself? – and Henry knew that the experience must have frightened her. She might have been too young to know what was happening but she was certainly old enough to recognize his anger, along with Anne's fear and desperation, and to be frightened by both.

He didn't think that he could bear it if he walked up to them, only to see fear in Elizabeth's eyes… or Anne's.

If they were happy together, if they were so caught up in their game that they could forget everything that had happened over the past couple of weeks, even if only for a short time, then he would not interfere and spoil their pleasure.

After everything that had happened, he had no right to do so.

Not wanting them to hear him, he slipped away as quickly and as quietly as he could, the sound of their laughter growing fainter as fainter as he walked away from his wife and his daughter, back towards the palace.


	7. Chapter 7

**_19th May 1536_ **

It was as though bad fortune gave out an odour of some kind, a sour stench warning people to keep their distance, to look away when he approached and to avert their eyes, as though by meeting his gaze they might doom themselves to a similar misfortune.

As he walked through the court, George felt as though he could sense the unspoken questions, feel people's curiousity as though it was a tangible thing. Many of those he passed would have given anything to be able to ask him how he had fared during his time in captivity, how he felt about the trial and his sentence, whether he harboured resentment towards the King over the fact that he had been arrested in the first place, what he knew about the circumstances of the King's investigation and their sudden exoneration, how deep the involvement of the Seymour family had been... all questions that they would never dare ask him aloud.

Courtiers were treading carefully these days, unwilling to risk causing offence by asking questions that they should not and none of them certain whether they should once more seek to cultivate the approval of the Boleyn family or whether the Queen and her kin were still out of favour with the King and it would be in their best interests to keep their distance from them.

He was no stranger to curiousity, of course. It was an inevitable part of life at court, a result of so many people of high estate living so close together, all of them knowing that they must compete against one another for royal favour if they hoped to prosper. Everybody had his eye on those around him, recognizing that at court, a wise man needed to stay on his toes and to always be alert for information that he could either use against a potential rival, or to cultivate the good will of a potential benefactor. As a Boleyn, George had attracted more attention than most but, while that was irksome, it had never felt as oppressive as the attention directed at him today did.

Before Anne's marriage to the King, people watched her and her family with speculative eyes, trying to determine what the chances were of them actually succeeding in placing one of their own on the throne, ousting Katherine and leading the King to disinherit his beloved daughter. If Anne was to be Queen, then it was in their best interests to be among the first to win their way into her good graces but if she failed in achieving her objective, Katherine was unlikely to look fondly on those who had sought to ally themselves with her rival.

Anne was watched daily for signs of pregnancy, or any hint that she might have finally yielded to the King's advances and shared his bed, something that many predicted would lead to her influence rapidly dissipating. People were always alert for any sign that the King might be tiring of her, that he might have decided that the trouble he was taking in order to be able to marry her since she would not be his mistress was not worth it, and that he would be better off forgetting about the whole idea, staying with his wife and finding another woman to warm his bed, one who did not count it an insult to be offered the role of mistress.

They watched George and his father too in those days, knowing about every appointment, land grant or gift that the King bestowed on them as soon as it was given, if not before. Some pretended to feel scorn at the fact that the Boleyn men owed so much of their newfound prosperity to their beautiful daughter and sister rather than to their own merits, mocking them for rising because the King desired Anne and because they were willing to use her as bait to secure royal favour but George was untroubled by this, knowing that there were very few men at court who would not have given their right arms to be in his shoes, or his father's, blessed with an undeniable advantage over the other courtiers, one that ensured that they would be the ones favoured most highly by the King.

In those days, the curiousity of the other courtiers was almost pleasant. He was conscious of the fact that people regarded him with envy and he could take pleasure in appearing in new, clearly expensive garments and adornments, knowing that everybody who saw him would be able to tally the value of his outfit as shrewdly as any merchant, using it as their yardstick to measure the King's increasing favour towards the Boleyns.

Anne's wedding was held in secret, a necessary subterfuge considering that they had to balance the need for her union with the King to be solemnized as soon as possible, because of her condition and the necessity of legitimizing the heir she carried, and the need to wait until the Bishop of Rome could send the bull to confirm Cranmer as Archbishop of Canterbury. However, despite the secrecy, despite all the precautions taken to ensure that nobody outside their closest circle would know of the marriage until the Bishop of Rome sent the bulls, so that Cranmer could pronounce the King's union with Katherine to be null and void, confirming that his marriage with Anne was the true, valid one before anybody else learned of it, rumours circulated freely and many of the guesses were far more accurate than they should have been.

Anne bore part of the blame for that, of course; her exchange with Wyatt about her newfound craving for apples and the King's suggestion that it might be a sign that she was pregnant was circulating throughout the court an hour after it was spoken, adding fuel to the flames of gossip.

After Cranmer proclaimed Anne to be the King's true wife and after she was crowned as Queen, people flocked to her family, hoping that they could benefit from their friendship. Their position was strong then, expected to become much stronger if Anne succeeded in bearing the King the son he craved and courtiers wished to benefit from association with the first family at court. People who would have avoided them as though they were stricken with the plague when Katherine still resided at court, enjoying her state as Queen and looking as though her nephew's power would ensure that she would emerge as the victor in the struggle, were among the first to hasten to them with assurances of friendship and lavish promises of future service, should they ever require anything from them.

In those days, George enjoyed rebuffing their overtures, savouring the feeling of being able to bestow or withhold favours, as he pleased. It was pleasant to be able to look at peers and their sons, men who had once deemed the Boleyns to be scarcely worthy of their notice, hardly better born than the commoners living and working on their estates, and to make it plain, without actually saying anything, that if they hoped that he would forget their past insults and accept their friendship, they were greatly mistaken.

With hindsight, he could see that that might have been a mistake on his part.

Had he accepted the overtures of friendship and done more for those who sought his approval, might they have been willing to stand by him when he needed the protection of noble friends?

When Elizabeth was born, there were more than a few who laughed, though always in secret, as the King's anger would have fallen on anybody he believed to be rejoicing in his disappointment. There were mocking whispers about the fact that, after all the trouble the King had taken to remarry and to father an heir, all he got in return for his effort was a second princess, one with a mother who was born a commoner and one whose legitimacy and status were questionable, at best. Rumours abounded over whether the King, now that Anne had proven that she was able to do no better than Katherine, would seek to set her aside and return to Katherine, consoling himself with the fact that at least Princess Mary was a winning girl, one who boasted connections to other European royal houses on her mother's side and resigning himself to the idea of having her as his legitimate heir.

If George was honest with himself, he had to admit that he was worried about that possibility himself, especially once it became known that the King had taken Lady Eleanor Luke as his mistress, ending the long years of fidelity to Anne, but he had underestimated his sister, just as he had underestimated the King's love for her. Before Elizabeth was three months old, Anne was pregnant again and the King's interest in Lady Eleanor proved to be a passing fancy, so much so that he did not bother to counter Anne's orders that the woman be sent away from court by issuing an invitation for her to return and rebuking his wife for sending away a woman she knew to be his favourite without first obtaining his leave to do so.

Had Anne's second child, or even her third survived and been born healthy and male, things would be so different now.

Instead of people whispering as he passed, speculating about the time he had spent as a prisoner in the Tower and wondering whether his reprieve would mean a restoration to favour or whether his days of favour and glory were over and he would now be permitted to remain at court only for the sake of appearances and not because the King wished to have him there, they would be looking at him as the uncle of England's future King, hoping for his friendship and willing to do whatever it took to win it.

When he heard a hissed whisper from one young man, for whom discretion was evidently not a strong point, he was sorely tempted to stop and tell him, in great detail, which of his former positions and properties were now restored to him and which ones remained in the possession of others, satisfying their curiousity once and for all.

Most of what was once his was now his again.

The King had sent a message to him, letting him know that as he was exonerated of all charges, his posts as Master of Buckhounds, Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports and even Master of the Bedlam Hospital for the Insane – a title that George would have been willing to lose, even if he had to lose it to a Seymour, as he did not consider the income generated from the position to be worth the ribbing, good-natured and otherwise, that he attracted as a result – were naturally to be restored to him, along with the income paid for each position.

Two days ago, Thomas Seymour came before him in a foul temper, one that he could barely conceal, to present him with the deeds to Grimston Manor, the ownership of which the other man had enjoyed for only a matter of days before having to surrender it into the hands of its rightful owner, something he did with very bad grace, his resentment almost palpable. George had taken great pleasure in dragging the encounter out as long as he possibly could, knowing how uncomfortable and embarrassed the other man would be to have to personally hand over one of the chief gains he had made from the King's infatuation with Mistress Jane.

The Seymours were in dire disgrace these days, going from being the King's favourites, the family of the woman he planned to set in Anne's place as Queen, to being banished and stripped of their honours and a great deal of the income they had enjoyed from various posts – posts that were now to be distributed among the men who were convicted with Anne, to crown the irony.

Perhaps it was the King's way of trying to compensate them for the fact that they were wrongly imprisoned, perhaps he wished to make it plain to everybody at court how the land lay and to ensure that everybody knew that the Seymours were under a shadow of disgrace that could never be lifted, but whatever the reason, George was still amused and faintly pleased to hear that he was likely to inherit a significant portion of the spoils taken from the Seymour family, including their traditional wardship of Savernake Forest. He would be lying if he claimed that the idea of being awarded a position that had been in the Seymour family for centuries did not appeal to him.

Maybe the King believed that if he honoured the Boleyn family, if he awarded George, Norris and Brereton land grants and stewardships and other posts, he could compensate them for the fact that they had come so close to being executed. George could imagine that his father would be pleased enough to accept any bounty that the King chose to bestow on him, always willing to derive what benefit he could from even the most unpleasant situation. He had never been a man to decline a gift, from a friend or from a foe. Were he a braver or more foolish man, George might have respectfully but very firmly declined the offers that were made to him, making it plain to the King that he was not a man to be bought off, but he was sensible enough to know that a wise man should take advantage of every opportunity he was offered, regardless of the circumstances. He could never know when a time would come when he would be glad of these offerings.

Where Norris was concerned, George would be willing to bet that the man had only accepted the posts and properties he was being offered for the sake of his family, the children who were almost left orphaned and destitute because their father, by some evil chance, was named by those seeking to get rid of Anne, because he had been one of the few people at court who genuinely admired Anne and was open about expressing that admiration at a time when others were being careful not to allow themselves to be seen to be too close to a Queen whose position was precarious at best. Had he been executed as a traitor, his property would be confiscated and his children would be left unprovided for. Now, he would want to do what he could to protect them from that fate.

George had no idea whether or not Brereton had been offered anything, although he suspected that he would be, sooner or later, and that he was likely to accept it.

Of course, it was very unlikely that the same overtures would be extended to Mark.

As a commoner, as a humble musician, even one in royal service, it was unlikely that the King would consider it necessary to placate him or to make amends with him, as with the others. Just as his status had not saved him from being imprisoned in the dungeons and tortured until he gave Cromwell the confession he sought, it would make it easier for the King to forget that he had ever ordered his arrest, much less come so close to allowing him to be executed and he would not feel as inclined to compensate him for what had happened.

For the King of England, what did the life or welfare of one more commoner matter?

George wanted to be able to go to the Tower and to the Constable's house, where Mark was to lodge until his injuries had healed enough to allow him to leave, so that he could visit him and reassure himself that he was being well cared-for but he knew better than to try. He could not draw attention to his friendship with Mark, much less give any hint that the other man meant more to him than that. He was being watched closely now, and would have to be careful. For both their sakes, it was vital that he keep his distance.

His step was quick as he made his way through the corridors, threading through the courtiers milling about and walking towards his sister's apartments, responding to the message she had sent asking that he pay a call on her. He had not seen Anne in the past two days, since they were released from the Tower, and he had not intended to see her yet, not so soon but, brother or not, he could not blatantly disobey a request from the Queen of England.

Anne rose as soon as he entered her rooms, giving him a warm smile of welcome and motioning, with a quick gesture, for her attendants to leave the room and give them some privacy, not seeing George's warning frown or the almost imperceptible shake of his head when she did so.

Although, for the sake of propriety, she was always careful to ensure that at least one of her ladies was within earshot when she received other gentlemen, Anne always dismissed her ladies when her father or her brother paid her a visit, so that she could speak privately with her family, but that was before. Now, it was a different matter. Everything had changed and they could no longer behave as they once had. Anne should know better than to think they could.

George reached out to catch one of his sister's ladies by the elbow, preventing her from leaving. "You may stay to attend Her Majesty." He told her hurriedly.

Mistress Gainsford glanced back at Anne, a puzzled expression of her face, seeking a sign from the Queen about whether she should follow George's instruction or whether it was Anne's wish that she leave with the others. Anne nodded at her, indicating that she might remain so she took a seat on a chair near the door, far enough away to allow the siblings a measure of privacy while they conversed but close enough to be on hand should they need anything… and close enough to be able to bear witness that there was nothing untoward about their conduct.

Carefully keeping a distance of several feel between himself and his sister, George bowed, greeting her formally. "You wanted to see me, Your Majesty?"

"Yes." Anne nodded, scrutinizing her brother's face carefully, worried about him. "I hadn't heard from you and I was afr… I wanted to know how you were faring." Anne corrected herself, not wanting to speak of her fears for him so openly in front of a witness, even one of her own ladies.

"I'm well enough." George told her blandly, waiting until she was sitting before he took one of the chairs opposite her, being careful to ensure that he maintained the distance between them. He smiled wryly. "His Majesty has been kind enough to restore most of my former posts and estates to me, and to offer me several new positions." He observed. "And I am also to be provided with new, larger quarters." The last one was a necessity, at least for the moment; George had felt a grim pleasure when he returned to Whitehall to learn that Jane had been placed under house arrest on the express orders of the King, forbidden to stir out of the rooms they had once shared. It was expected that she would soon be arrested and charged for bearing false witness against her husband and sister-in-law and George was far from sorry to think that he would soon be rid of her.

"That's good." Anne said before lowering her voice. "And the others?" Naturally, none of the men who were convicted of being her lovers would have dared to set foot in her rooms uninvited and, under the circumstances, she knew better than to send for them, putting them in the awkward position of either having to come face to face with the woman for whose sake they might have been executed, very possibly drawing suspicion on themselves by visiting her in her rooms, or else refusing a direct request of their Queen, but surely nobody could see any evil in her wishing to speak to her brother.

"I don't know much about Norris and Brereton." George responded in a clipped tone. "I can tell you that they're at court, and that they're still free men but I haven't spoken to them since they were released. Mark…" He trailed off, a lump forming in his throat at the thought of the agony that must have been inflicted on his friend, his lover and his truest companion, and the pain that he must still be enduring as his wounds healed.

"George?" Anne prompted gently, seeing the pain in her brother's eyes and instinctively wanting to comfort him. She rose, crossing over to his chair and bending to place her arms around him, only for her attempted embrace to be rebuffed when her brother roughly pushed her hands away, rising hastily and backing away from her, glancing back at Mistress Gainsford, as though he was afraid of the conclusions that the woman might draw.

"What is wrong with you?" He demanded in a hissed whisper, scowling at her and wondering if she had lost her wits. Had the events of the past weeks made no impression on her? Had she learned nothing of discretion from everything that had happened, and how close they all came to dying? What would it take to teach Anne that she had to be careful? How many people would have to suffer before she got it into her head that her position demanded that she conduct herself in a far more seemly fashion than she had until now?

Anne's eyes were wide as her brother took a couple of steps away from her, as though he was afraid that he might be burned or contaminated if he touched her.

Surely this ugly affair had not cost her her brother too.

Mistress Gainsford averted her eyes from the scene in front of her, wishing that Lord Rochford had singled out one of the others to remain and chaperone their meeting. She was shrewd enough to be able to understand why Lord Rochford would wish for her to be present to be able to bear witness to the fact that nothing untoward happened between him and the Queen – although in her opinion, the allegations of incest reflected badly on their accusers for coming up with such a filthy lie, not on the Queen and her brother who were guiltless of those charges – but that did not make her feel more comfortable about being present for this exchange, seeing the anger on Lord Rochford's face and the pain in the Queen's eyes as her brother thrust her away from him.

It came as a great relief to her when she heard footsteps approaching the door, followed by a knock and she was only too glad when Anne nodded to indicate that she might admit the visitor.

"The Earl of Wiltshire, Your Majesty." She announced, ushering Thomas Boleyn into the room.

As soon as he entered, Boleyn took in the scene in front of him in a sweeping glance, noting the expressions of his children's faces. "Leave us." He commanded Mistress Gainsford, who was pleased to obey. "What is going on here?" He asked, looking from Anne to George for answers and frowning when he saw the unhappiness in Anne's eyes. "What did you say to her?" He asked George sharply.

George didn't answer at first, not knowing what to say. It was not that he wanted to hurt Anne, and he didn't blame her for what had happened… or did he? He wasn't sure.

She couldn't be blamed for the fact that her enemies had seized the chance to be rid of her by accusing her of infidelity, knowing that if they could make the charges stick, Anne would pay for their lives with her life, freeing the King to remarry before her body was cold, making the Seymour slut Queen and placing a brat born from her womb on the throne as England's next King but her behaviour certainly had not made it especially difficult for them to make up allegations against her, allegations that were just believable enough to allow her to be condemned.

Between her wild declarations about wanting to see Katherine and Mary dead and her plan to order their executions should she be left as Regent in the King's absence, together with her preference for male company and the fact that she occasionally received men in her quarters, sending for Mark to play for her in the evenings, she gave them the rope they needed to hang her… to hang them all.

Mark was fond of Anne, he knew that. He would have treated her kindly in any case, as she was George's sister, but he also liked her for her own sake, and pitied her because of the King's neglect. His sympathy for Anne and his willingness to spend time with her and to act as a confidante when she needed his company had almost cost him his life, and the torture he had endured before he could be induced to make a false confession that would damn her had ruined his body and his health, perhaps beyond all hope of recovery.

"She needs to be more careful." He said at last. "We were lucky this time. It can't happen again."

Without another word, he left the room, leaving his father and sister alone.

"Is he right, Papa?" Anne asked softly, after a silence stretching for several long moments. "Did this happen because of what I did?"

"No." Boleyn responded at once, speaking truthfully. Anne's behaviour may have lacked discretion in some ways, and he certainly did not think that it would hurt if she was more careful in the future, but it would not have given rise to comment under other circumstances. Had it not been for the fact that her position with the King was weakened, leaving him more willing to believe the charges alleged against her than he would have been in happier times, had it not been for the fact that her enemies had sensed the weakness of her position and circled like vultures, eager for the chance to destroy her, nobody would have believed that her friendships with male courtiers were anything other than innocent, or suspected that she even contemplated the idea of adultery. "This isn't your fault, sweetheart." He said kindly, not wanting her to be distressed.

Anne nodded, grateful for his attempts at reassurance and trying to suppress the nagging doubt that he might have been trying to console her with a comforting lie. Part of her didn't care if he was. Part of her even wanted to believe that he would lie for her sake. It was a refreshing change to have her father in her corner once more, not as an ambitious man seeking advancement through her but as the doting papa she remembered from her childhood, before she ever came to court. "Elizabeth said that her servants were talking about whether she might become a bastard." She said, needing to speak to somebody about what she had heard.

Boleyn nodded comprehension, not surprised by what he was hearing. "I wondered whether that might happen." He said gently, taking his daughter's hand in his and guiding her towards the chairs by the fire, sitting down with her.

"But I was going to be executed!" Anne protested. "I would be dead, and he could marry Mistress Seymour if he wanted to. He didn't need to annul our marriage too."

"I know," Boleyn agreed, frowning at the thought of a Seymour sitting on the throne. "But perhaps the King wished to ensure that a child born of his marriage to Mistress Seymour would be his lawful heir, even if she only bore him a daughter and Elizabeth would be his legal heir, no matter what you were charged with – and she and her family are rumoured to be supporters of the Lady Mary." He reminded her. "I think that, after what happened, we can safely say that those rumours are true. They would have a vested interest in seeing your marriage annulled and Elizabeth declared a bastard."

Anne nodded. It made sense; if Mistress Seymour had hoped to restore the Lady Mary, an act that was likely to win her the support of the Emperor, who would be more than happy to welcome a Queen of England who was warmly disposed towards his cousin, then she would surely know that Mary's restoration would be all but impossible as long as Elizabeth was recognized as Henry's legitimate daughter, born of a lawful union. She could understand why Mistress Seymour would hope to see Elizabeth declared a bastard but that didn't mean that she was any less dismayed and angry about the fact that Henry was willing to go along with it.

"I can't believe that Henry was going to agree to that."

"He won't be able to do it now." Seeing the puzzled look on Anne's face, Boleyn elaborated. "Don't you see, Anne? The King _can't_ annul his marriage to you now, under any circumstances. The people wouldn't stand for it." He gave her a thin smile. "For the first time, they're on your side. That's something that you can take advantage of, if you play your cards right and you're careful to be the kind of Queen they want. I can think of only a few things that they might condemn you for now. "

* * *

Thomas Audley would never be a Cromwell, or a Wolsey or More either.

He was a good and clever man, and a loyal servant but he lacked Cromwell's shrewd, cunning mind, Wolsey's intuitive grasp of diplomacy and More's steadfast devotion to his conscience.

As acting chancellor, he was an efficient worker, and Henry had to own that the man had come up with several good ideas that had helped to smooth things over in the aftermath of Anne's trial but he could not envision Audley as a permanent replacement. He would have to find another chancellor soon, when things settled down and he had a chance to consider who he wanted to choose. There would certainly be plenty of people who would want the position.

They spent the morning hard at work on various matters that had been neglected somewhat over the past couple of weeks, when Anne's trial had dominated virtually everything and there was more than one moment when Henry half-wished that he could have Cromwell's help; Audley was too new to the post and too inexperienced for Henry to leave him to get on with the work, so he was obliged to stay and work with him instead of leaving, something he would have loved to do.

The idea of being able to leave to go riding with Brandon, or even just to be able to be by himself, for a while, was a tempting one but he knew that he couldn't leave, not until they were finished.

As Audley droned on, Henry tuned out his words, inwardly debating over what he should do regarding the men released from the Tower… Anne was a problem to be left for another day.

When he stripped the Seymour men of so many of their official posts and stewardships, withdrawing all the gifts of property he had made to them over the past weeks and months, it seemed right that the men who were imprisoned in the Tower should be the ones to profit from the Seymours' loss. It was only fitting that they should. Once he made his decision, beginning to divide the spoils in his mind, he found that he felt a little easier in his mind.

He had made a mistake when he believed Cromwell's investigation to be completely honest and impartial, he should have taken a closer interest in the investigation and the trials from the very beginning, something that would have allowed him to see Anne's innocence before it progressed half as far as it had, but any man, even a King, could make a mistake. What mattered was that he _hadn't_ allowed the affair to progress to the point where innocent people were executed. The men had spent an anxious few weeks in the Tower and, in the cases of the men who were convicted, they must have been frightened when they believed their deaths to be imminent but he had stopped it in time and he could compensate them for their fright with land and honours.

A part of Henry had hoped that when he summoned Norris to let him know that he was to be awarded three of the stewardships recently stripped from Edward Seymour, he would see a glimmer of gratitude, or of pleasure at the very least, in the other man's eyes. After all, as King, he was accountable to God alone and it was not for one of his subjects to bear a grudge against him, even for unjust imprisonment or the slander of his good name. Norris had accepted the offer, thanking him politely but there was no warmth in his eyes. He was wary around him, as though he was afraid that Henry would hand him gifts with one hand and strike him with the other.

At least he had accepted.

Brereton had not.

At first, Henry had not been inclined to allow the man anything, as he had lied and almost damned Anne with his lie but, as Audley had timidly pointed out, people would probably expect that if the others were to be granted favours, Brereton should not be excluded and, after considering the matter, Henry had begrudgingly agreed that he should be offered a couple of very minor posts, as a token gesture of good will on his part.

He might as well have saved himself the trouble.

Brereton had declined the offers he was made, peevishly insisting that he wanted nothing. At first, Henry thought that the man might be hoping that if he appeared reluctant to accept the initial offer, he would find himself the recipient of even more royal bounty but even when Henry sweetened the pot by offering him a pleasant manor in Kent, knowing that Audley was right that something should be seen to be done for Brereton, he continued to refuse.

He had even gone so far as to blurt that if Henry wished to please him, he would be grateful if the positions he was offering him could be given to the Seymour family instead.

That was impossible, of course.

The Seymour family were disgraced and it would be unthinkable if Henry, mere days after he had stripped them of so much of what was once theirs, should change his mind and return anything of what they lost to them, even a small portion given at the request of one of those they had wronged. If he did that, he would be sending the Seymours and all of his court the wrong message, one that would lead them to believe that their disgrace was not permanent and that they could hold out hope that they might one day be restored to his good graces.

That would never happen and it was best that they, along with the rest of the court, should harbour no illusions on that score.

When Henry made it plain to him that he would not be granting the Seymours anything, Brereton had asked that he be allowed to resign his position as a groom of the privy chamber, and to leave the court. He had not said where he wished to go and Henry had not asked him, nor had he given him a response to his request, one way or another. He did not know what he ought to say.

Part of him would be very glad to see Brereton go, to know that at least one of the men would no longer be in court, that he would not have to look at the face of a man he had almost condemned to death, a man whose lies had almost cost Anne her life and to know that he would not have to pretend to favour him but another part of him knew that it was too early yet for him to allow one of the men to leave. If Brereton left now, it would look as though he had either been banished in disgrace or that he was unwilling to continue living under the same room as the King who had almost sent him to his death and that was not a message that ought to be sent.

He told Brereton that he would consider his request and dismissed him.

With the other two men falsely convicted, Henry had to wrestle with the decision of what he ought to do for them.

Naturally, he could not give Mark Smeaton the same kind of gifts that he would give a gentleman in his position. Regardless of the circumstances, it would be utterly unthinkable for him to grant a common musician the kind of official posts and stewardships that a member of the gentry, if not the nobility, might expect to hold and it would not have been fitting for him to grant him a manor, a residence so far above his station. He still had some time to decide what it was he wished to do, as the physicians summoned to tend the musician had reported that it would be some weeks yet before he recovered from his ordeal in the Tower and was able to leave the Constable's House.

Henry thought that he would grant him a pension, one that would be adequate to maintain him comfortably for the rest of his life, as the physicians all agreed that there was no hope that Smeaton would ever be able to make his living by playing music again. That would be enough, and more than most Kings would do in his position, especially given Smeaton's confession to him. In any case, he had some time to consider the issue before making a final decision.

He had already restored George's former positions and property, and had granted him a few posts once held by Seymours but he didn't know if that was sufficient or if he ought to go any further.

George was his brother-in-law and, of all the men accused, he had the most cause to resent the slur cast on his good name. Norris, Brereton and Smeaton were convicted of adultery and treason but, in addition to that, George had been tainted by allegations of incest, a foul, unnatural crime, one that stained the name of the accused as soon as the allegation was spoken. It would be expected that George should be the chief beneficiary of the spoils being doled out but a part of Henry hesitated, not wanting to be too generous towards George.

He couldn't forget what Smeaton had told him.

George might be innocent of incest with Anne but his crimes with Smeaton were just as foul and just as unnatural. Had Henry learned of them a month earlier, he would have ordered that both men should be arrested and charged for their crimes, crimes that would merit their executions if they were convicted, but he couldn't do that now.

In the same way that he could not annul his marriage to Anne without his people assuming that the only reason for it was that he had not been able to execute her, any allegations he made against the men who were accused with her would be assumed to be a pretext for getting rid of them, a punishment for the fact that they were friends to Anne, rather than evidence of their guilt.

As well as that, if he was to have any hope of being able to enjoy a cordial relationship with Anne in the future, let alone something more than that, he could not condemn her brother, even if he knew him to be guilty. Anne would not want to believe that her adored older brother was capable of committing such a crime and George would surely deny everything if she asked him about it, assuring her that Henry was the liar, not him.

And Anne would believe George, assuming that this was an attempt to hurt her on Henry's part.

Under the circumstances, Henry couldn't entirely blame Anne if her inclination was to side with her brother rather than with him but it was still very difficult for him to know that he had to not only leave George's crimes unpunished but also to reward his brother-in-law and pretend to favour him.

"…and there is just one more matter, Your Majesty – or, rather, two more matters." Audley's voice interrupted Henry's train of thought and he turned to look at the other man, waiting for him to elaborate. "Master Cromwell and Lady Rochford, Your Majesty. They have been confined to their quarters for the past three days. Has Your Majesty decided what you wish to do with them?"

Another question that was weighing on Henry.

With Cromwell, he knew that he needed to punish his former chancellor, and that it was necessary for him to do so publicly, to show his people that he did not condone the man's actions. It was very likely that Cromwell had only acted as he had out of a desire to please his sovereign, knowing how much he wanted to be free of his union with Anne so that he might marry Jane and have a fresh start with her and knowing that coming up with acceptable grounds for an annulment might be more difficult than they initially anticipated but Henry could not allow himself to show lenience, whatever Cromwell's motive had been. If he did, it would be tantamount to an admission that he approved of Cromwell's actions and that was an impression that he simply could not afford to give.

With Lady Rochford, he could have had a measure of sympathy for her, if not for the trouble that her lies had helped to cause for him. He could understand that the woman must have been bitterly hurt and humiliated to learn that her husband left her bed so that he might become the lover of another man but that did not justify her decision to drag Anne into the affair, punishing her sister-in-law for something she had nothing to do with. Had Lady Rochford reported her husband's actions to him, Henry would have dealt with the matter, brought Smeaton and George to trial for their crimes and ensured that Lady Rochford would not suffer any loss of her dowry or jointure rights at the hands of her husband's family, who would be angry for the disgrace she brought to the Boleyn name and who would want to exact revenge by robbing her of her due as George's widow, if they thought that they could get away with doing so.

By lying, she had lost her chance to gain just retribution and instead, she had condemned herself.

Both had had their reasons for lying, reasons that Henry could understand, but that did not change the fact that they had lied, or soften the fact that their lies would have condemned innocent people to death. That was something that could not be ignored or pardoned.

They would have to be dealt with.

"Draw up the orders to have them arrested and committed to the Tower." He commanded Audley. "They are to be taken there before the end of the day."

Neither of them would be permitted to spend another night under the roof of Whitehall.

* * *

Nan Saville had no sooner returned to the palace, reporting to the Queen's quarters to resume her duties as lady-in-waiting, as ordered, than Anne asked her to accompany her to the gardens so that they might walk together.

Madge Shelton's dismissal had also been rescinded and she was expected to return to the court tomorrow, or on Sunday at the very latest. Anne was looking forward to having her cousin in her household once more, knowing that in her position, she needed all the loyal friends she could get but Nan was the first of the two to return, and perhaps the only person who had been at court after her arrest who could be trusted to be completely honest with her about what happened, neither attempting to downplay the issues in the hopes of placating Anne or exaggerating the details of what had happened in her absence in order to destroy her peace of mind.

Two other ladies accompanied them into the gardens but they walked a discreet distance behind them, allowing them to converse quietly without fear of being overheard.

Anne nodded absently in response to Nan's genuine expression of pleasure at the fact that she had been freed from imprisonment, saved from death and restored to her former – her _rightful_ – position but she was only listening with half an ear, her thoughts preoccupied by other concerns.

"…I tried to secure a place in the Princess' household, so that I might watch over her, as you asked." Nan explained apologetically, her words drawing Anne's attention from her musings. "But I was refused. I was going to try again, though, when things died down." She added. It was plain from the look on her face that she deeply regretted the fact that she was unable to do more for little Elizabeth, prevented from carrying out the task Anne had charged her with and taking care of the toddler when her mother was no longer able to do so but she truly had done all she could to try to secure a place in the child's household, not wanting to let her mistress down.

Unfortunately, under the circumstances, the last thing that the King or Master Cromwell intended was to increase the number of people attending the little princess, now that her mother was disgraced. If anything, it was expected that the household at Hatfield, the little establishment that was set up for Elizabeth within a few months of her birth, would be drastically reduced.

"Then I was told that my presence in Your Majesty's household was no longer required and that I would have to leave the court." She finished softly.

"I understand." Anne said, smiling a little to reassure Nan that she did not blame her for her inability to secure a place as one of Elizabeth's ladies. How could she? In the aftermath of her arrest, it was likely that more than a few of Elizabeth's attendants would have given serious consideration to the idea of seeking to resign their places, knowing that it was unlikely to do them any good if they remained tied to the King's daughter by the wife he condemned for adultery, sharing their tiny charge's exile from the court. That Nan was willing to seek to leave the court, along with the prospect of a place in Mistress Seymour's household, in order to stay with Elizabeth and to watch over her said a great deal about her character but it was no more than Anne would have expected from one of the kindest and most loyal members of her household.

It also did not escape her notice that it had likely been Nan's request to serve Elizabeth, something that would have been taken as evidence of where her loyalties truly lay, that had led to her being chosen as one of the ladies who was to be dismissed in order to make room for the Seymour sisters. At the very least, it would have been a contributing factor.

Anne was touched to know that, despite her disgrace, she and Elizabeth had still had somebody they could count as a loyal friend.

"Before you were dismissed, Nan, did you hear anything about what the King intended to do about our marriage – and about Elizabeth's position? Please tell me the truth. I need to know." She added when Nan hesitated, unwilling to hurt her with an answer that she knew to be painful for her. She had to know the full story about what had happened in her absence.

Anne had already questioned Cranmer about the matter, drawing from the man a reluctant confession that he had been asked to investigate the validity of her marriage to Henry after she was first arrested. He had not had to come out and say that it was made plain to him that there was only one verdict that he was expected to deliver, only one verdict that would be acceptable to the King he served.

She could imagine that Cromwell or Brandon or whoever had given Cranmer his instructions had made it plain to him that he was not being asked to investigate the validity of her marriage, he was being ordered to find grounds for why it should be dissolved, and nobody was unduly concerned about whether those grounds were plausible or not.

"There were rumours, Your Majesty," Nan admitted unwillingly, knowing that Anne was as aware as she was that rumours often contained a great deal of truth, something that was almost certainly the case this time. She didn't want to cause her mistress pain, something that she had endured far too much of in recent times, but she owed it to her to be honest. "Nobody _said_ anything about it openly, at least not around me or the other ladies, but I think that everybody knew that it was only a matter of time before Archbishop Cranmer declared Your Majesty's marriage to the King to be no true marriage."

Anne nodded comprehension, a wry smile tugging at the corners of her mouth; although she knew well how serious the matter was, she could still draw faint amusement from the irony.

Had Henry been unaware of the fact that if their marriage was declared to be invalid, if it was declared that she had never been his wife or England's Queen, she could not have committed adultery? Did he and his wily lawyer Cromwell not comprehend that if she was not legally Henry's wife, if she was not truly the Queen, the liaisons of the Marquess of Pembroke would not be a treasonable matter and her execution, and those of the men, would be murder rather than the just punishment for a crime even if they _had_ been lovers?

Or was it that they knew but simply did not care?

Was it that Henry was so desperate to punish her, by whatever means he could, that he wanted to ensure that Elizabeth would be robbed of her birthright so that he could honour whatever worthless brats the Seymour wench managed to whelp for him ahead of their beautiful, intelligent and remarkable child, even if it meant that he had to twist the law to do so, even if it meant rendering his long struggle to dissolve his union with Katherine so that he could marry her a wasted effort?

"What about Elizabeth?" She asked, even though she already knew the answer. It certainly did not take any great intelligence to be able to work out that if her marriage was declared to be invalid, her child would be branded illegitimate. "What was going to happen to her?"

"Princess Elizabeth was still at court, Your Majesty, as you know," Nan began, taking pleasure in stressing the little princess' title, along with Anne's correct mode of address, knowing how close they had both come to losing their positions. "But the King gave orders that she was to be kept out of his sight, and restricted to her quarters. I asked to be allowed to see her but that was not permitted. Not many people tried to pay Her Highness a visit." She added regretfully, remembering the feeling of pity she had had for little Elizabeth, an innocent child who was not only to lose her mother and her status but who was also being ignored by the father who once doted on her and by the courtiers who, a few months ago, were all too eager to admire the child when she was brought to court, knowing that it pleased the King to hear his little daughter praised.

"I see." Anne said quietly. "Thank you for trying to see her, Nan. I truly appreciate it. But there's more, isn't there?" Nan's face told her that, even if her tongue was reluctant to speak the words.

"Yes, Your Majesty." Nan agreed. Although she was reluctant to speak about the matter, knowing that her news was bound to anger and upset Anne, this was something that she had to speak of. It was generally accepted that Anne's position as Queen was secure for life but the past weeks had highlighted another threat, one that might not be entirely neutralized, and if Anne was going to have any hope of defending herself and her child from it, she would need to be forewarned. It would be unfair to try to hide this from her. "After you were arrested, there were many people who spoke of the Lady Mary, praising her to the King. It was know that Mistress Seymour was kindly disposed towards her and many people expected that, once you were… once it was over, it would not be long before she managed to persuade the King to welcome her back to court and to restore her as Princess, and as heir until a son was born. It was known that some people were writing letters to the Lady Mary, pledging their friendship and their support – and there were even a few who travelled to Hatfield to visit her."

"Did the King know about that?" Anne asked, alarmed by what she was hearing.

"I think that he must have, Your Majesty." Nan said quietly, thinking that even if people tried to keep their visits to the Lady Mary a secret, Master Cromwell would undoubtedly have learned of their activities and communicated the information to the King. "I don't believe that Mistress Seymour made a secret of her desire to see the Lady Mary brought to court after…"

"After their wedding." Anne finished dryly.

"But the King never gave any indication that he was considering the idea of restoring the Lady Mary," Nan added hastily, hating to see the troubled expression on Anne's face. "There was no news about him making a move to make her a princess again. Lady Mary stayed at Hatfield while the trial was in progress, and the King never said anything about inviting her back to court… although I believe that he ordered that she should be permitted attendants of her own." She admitted reluctantly, unable to downplay the significance of this order, even in her own mind.

Nan was there when the King announced that the infant Elizabeth was to have her own establishment at Hatfield, as befitted a child who was the Princess of England and, for the present at any rate, the heir to the throne. His tone was matter of fact as he announced that his elder daughter would be one of the ladies who would attend the baby princess, saying that she needed to know her new place. He wanted to highlight her status as a bastard and ensure that it was clear to her and to everybody else that Mary was no longer a princess, no longer entitled to the status and deference she had once enjoyed by placing her in a humble position in her new sister's household, refusing to allow her any servants of her own and insisting that she should be a servant herself.

If he was prepared to alter Mary's circumstances, improving her lot, was that an indication that it would not be long now before her status improved? Was this the first step towards Mary's restoration as a princess?

Anne couldn't dismiss the possibility.

Mary couldn't become Queen, she knew that.

She couldn't forget the recurring nightmares she had had about being burned alive at Mary's hands. If something happened to Henry, and her stepdaughter became Queen instead of Elizabeth, Anne would lay odds that neither she nor her child could expect to live much longer. If no pretext could be found for them to be executed, then it was all but inevitable that they would be murdered, either on Mary's orders or else by somebody who hoped to win favour with the new Queen by ridding her of both her young half-sister and rival, and of the woman she surely blamed for the breaking of her parents' marriage and the fact that she was declared illegitimate.

Anne would never allow that to happen.

She was Elizabeth's mother and she would protect her.

In order to do that, she would need to ensure that her child's position was protected and that was what she would do.

* * *

Cromwell had accepted that his arrest and imprisonment were inevitable.

He knew the King well enough to know that he would not be allowed to escape unpunished. Even if there was a part of Henry, however deeply buried, that understood that Cromwell had acted as he had out of a desire to ensure that he was granted the freedom he craved and because he recognized that Anne's removal might prove necessary if they wished to proceed with the Imperial alliance, even if there was a part of him that felt thankful that his loyal servant had tried to do so much for him and that shrank from the thought of punishing him for doing it, that instinct would be ruthlessly suppressed, especially after the way the people had reacted to what was happening.

The King could not allow himself to be blamed for it which meant that Cromwell would have to be offered up as a scapegoat, punished to satisfy the crowds who cried against all those who had tried to bring Anne to the scaffold and who would not be content until they could see that somebody was paying the price for what had happened.

_"I want the people to love their new Queen, as I love her." Henry spoke quietly, but there was a determined edge to his voice, one that sent a chill down Cromwell's spine, as he knew who would be expected to ensure that the English people welcomed Anne as he wished them to and who could easily find himself being blamed if they did not. "And if I can love her, why shouldn't they?"_

_The King might have been able to succeed in his aim of setting Katherine aside and marrying Anne, who was already pregnant with their first child, but he could not blind himself to the fact that the people had not welcomed his bride with open arms, despite her condition and the hope that she would provide them with a prince at last. Anne could be made Queen by his will but he could not force his people to accept her or to welcome her and he knew it._

_As much as he loved Anne, he could not make others feel the same way about her._

_That was not what he wanted to hear, however, and Cromwell was too clever a man to say anything of the sort. Instead, he contented himself with reassurance. "I assure Your Majesty, they will love her." He pledged, trying to sound confident about it, knowing that Henry would want to believe him when he said it. "And shall have every reason to do so."_

They had not welcomed Anne of course, nor had Cromwell truly expected them to, despite the fact that he had seen to it that no expense was spared where her coronation was concerned, in the hopes that people would be sufficiently pleased with the pageantry and with the free food and wine that they would be prompted to cheer for Anne, even if only for a day. Instead, the streets were all but deserted and the few people who appeared in the streets greeted Anne with a silence that spoke their disapproval more eloquently than words ever could.

The people's loyalty was with Katherine and they had scant patience for the woman they perceived to be usurping the place of the woman they still thought of as their rightful Queen. Even the fact that she was visibly pregnant had not softened their feelings towards her, as they still viewed the Lady Mary as the King's rightful heiress, not the child Anne carried.

As Cromwell had expected and dreaded, they could not be forced to love her, not then.

It was only now that the people were taking Anne into their hearts, siding with her against those who would do her harm.

Cromwell was not known for his sense of humour but even he could not suppress a grim smile at the irony. Three years ago, he would have been delighted to see the English people welcoming Anne as their Queen when she rode through the street of London to her coronation, knowing that if they accepted her as such, they would accept the child she carried as the King's legitimate heir, supplanting the half-Spanish Mary, a girl who was all but guaranteed to bring the Inquisition to England if she sat on the throne, crushing their reformation and yoking England to Rome once more. Now, however, when the people had finally accepted Anne, it was something that worked against him rather than in his favour, as they were crying out against him for threatening her life, demanding that he be made to pay for what he had done.

He knew that it would not be long now before soldiers appeared at the doorway of his quarters – smaller and plainer rooms than those he had given up to the Seymours, thinking to facilitate the King's courtship of Lady Jane, not realizing that Henry would be displeased to have any attention drawn to his love for the lady, as he was still able to convince himself that nobody at court knew of it – bearing an arrest warrant with his name on it and telling him that he was to be conducted to the Tower, to be detained at the King's pleasure.

The only question in his mind was how long he could expect to be imprisoned, and which charges the King would lay against him.

By his reckoning, the best case scenario would be for him to be detained without trial for a period of weeks or months or even years, without any official charges being laid against him. The King would be able to satisfy his people's desire to see punishment meted out by having him confined to the Tower but he would remember Cromwell's years of loyal service, remember the man who was willing to do whatever it took in order to please him and later, when things had died down somewhat and feelings were no longer running as high, he would quietly order his release, allowing him to retire to the country, or perhaps to leave England altogether.

Cromwell thought that he might like to live in Nuremberg, a city famous as one run wholly by reformers, free from popish superstition. He could be happy in such a place, and a man of his ability would always be able to find employment, even if he could not hope to win a position as lofty as that which he had lost.

He could also find himself charged with perjury, or some such crime and if that was the case, he was likely to be heavily fined and imprisoned for a period of several years at least before he could be released.

Or he could be charged with treason.

Cromwell was a trained barrister, and he was very familiar with the law as it related to treason.

To compass or to imagine the death of the King, his wife or his eldest son was an act of high treason, punishable by death. He had helped to falsify information that led to Anne being convicted of treason herself, and that had almost led to her execution, indirectly imperilling her life. He might have done so through legal channels rather than by scheming to have her poisoned or something along those lines but he had still attempted to bring about the death of the Queen of England and that was treasonous.

Under other circumstances, he might have relied on his sound knowledge of the law to exonerate himself and sought to argue that Anne was not really Queen and that there was no treason in attempting to kill the King's mistress but that would not save his life. He had drafted the Acts of Succession and Supremacy himself and, under the law, any attempt to deny the validity of the King's marriage to Anne or to question her title as Queen was also an act of high treason, also punishable by death. He had ensured that the law was watertight when he drafted it, never thinking that it might one day work to his detriment.

If the King sought to lay a charge of treason against him, he would be executed.

He could only pray that the King would show him enough mercy to content himself with a lesser charge, one that would allow him to escape with his life.

He heard footsteps in the corridors and, although he did not rise, he smoothed his tunic, brushing back stray hairs so that when they entered, he would look presentable at least, like the cool, collected Lord Chancellor he was last week instead of like a desperate man who had good cause to fear for his life. He still had his pride at least.

They did not trouble to knock before entering the room.

"Master Cromwell." Of all the men Cromwell had suspected might be sent to him, he had not anticipated that Brandon would be one of them – though, on reflection, it made sense that Brandon would wish to prove his loyalty and distance himself from the investigation against Anne as much as possible. Perhaps it was fitting that the man sent to bring Anne the news of her arrest should be the one to come to tell him that it was his turn to be brought to the Tower.

He rose, inclining his head in deference to the other man's rank as a duke. "Your Grace." At least he could take a slight measure of comfort from the fact that Brandon looked almost as unhappy to be delivering the message as Cromwell was to receive it. He would have wanted to see Anne gone too, wanted to see the King free to remarry, preferably to a woman who would be warmly disposed towards the Lady Mary. "To what do I owe this pleasure?" He asked, his tone tinged with the faintest note of irony.

Brandon reluctantly unrolled the parchment he held. "Master Cromwell, here is a warrant for your arrest. I am ordered by the King to conduct you to the Tower at once."

"I see." Cromwell responded blandly. "On what charge, Your Grace?"

Brandon's eyes answered his question before his tongue could give the two words voice. Cromwell felt his heart sink and it took every modicum of self-control he possessed to keep his face from revealing any sign of distress at those two damning words.

"High treason."

* * *

George came to see her before she was taken.

After her days of frightened isolation, Jane's first emotion when she saw his face was one of gratitude and relief that somebody had finally come to see her. For a brief, absurd instant, she even hoped that George might be there to tell her that he had spoken with the King on her behalf, that he had sorted out the situation and pleaded for mercy to be shown to her, asking that, as a boon to him, the King should forgive her for the lie she had told when she was being questioned.

Of all people, George had good cause to know that she had been given reason to feel anger towards him, and that she should not be condemned too harshly if her anger led her to lie. Even if Jane regretted that her lie was one that was used to doom her sister-in-law as well as her husband, she knew that when she lied, she was so pleased with the opportunity to be able to have revenge for all that George had done to her that she was willing to seize it, even if it meant that an innocent person would be dragged down with him.

If George was honest with himself, he would admit that he bore at least part of the blame for what had happened, and if there was any kindness, mercy or charity in his heart, he would forgive her and he would want to do what he could to ensure that the King would spare her. If he was willing to do that much for her, she would not utter a word of protest if he wished to end their marriage and send her home to live with her father and she would never breathe a word about his unnatural perversions, she would just be thankful that she had escaped a worse fate by far.

However, when she saw the smug smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, and the cold look in his eyes, she knew that she could not hope that he would speak for her.

"I've come to say goodbye, my _dearest_ wife." He told her, his spiteful tone contrasting with his honeyed words. "Somebody will be here for you soon, and then you're bound for the Tower." He smirked at her. "I think I will ask that Master Kingston lodge you in the cell that I stayed in during my visit, it seems fitting, don't you think? Although, unless I'm very much mistaken, your stay there may be a much longer one… if you are fortunate."

His implication was unmistakeable and Jane shuddered, terrified by the thought that she might lose her life for her lie.

She was not unaware of the fact that the tide of public opinion was turning very much against her. Even before the King learned of Anne's innocence, she knew that people were speaking against her, both at court and in the streets and taverns of London.

When she lied, she fancied that, as Anne was so unpopular and as there were many who would be delighted to be rid of the whole Boleyn clan, they would be pleased with her for having done her part in bringing about their doom. The courtiers who hoped to see the Seymours in the ascendance would be happy that she had helped to pave the way for them and she would be a heroine to the common people, who had always loved Katherine so much and disliked Anne, because she would be the one who helped to avenge the late Queen.

Instead, she was reviled.

At court, people shunned her and she could sense their disapproval, knowing that they were talking about her behind her back, condemning her as a disloyal wife for providing evidence against her husband, and as a fool for deliberately working against the Boleyns when she was tied to them by marriage, when George's execution and the confiscation of his property would leave her considerably poorer than she was during her marriage. The common people, who recognized the injustice of the charges laid against Anne and who were indignant on her behalf, condemned Jane as a jealous wife, claiming that her jealousy of her husband's natural affection for his sister had led her to lie about them in the hopes of avenging herself against them both.

If only Anne was the only one she had to be jealous of!

Jane certainly would not have objected to the idea of her husband enjoying a warm relationship with his sisters but the humiliation of knowing that he was shunning their bed so that he might bed Mark Smeaton instead, preferring the company of another man, and a commoner to crown the shame, over that of his own wife was unendurable. She knew that she could not hope that she would be able to be freed from her marriage any other way; her father had been adamant that she marry George, tying herself to the powerful Boleyn family and he had had to scrape money together to pay the large dowry that the Earl of Wiltshire demanded of his son's bride, selling some of his land in order to secure the required sum – and even then, the King had had to pay part of it. If she deserted George and returned to her father's house, her husband would be well within his rights if he insisted on retaining her dowry, and her father could ill afford to continue to support her, let alone furnish her with a second dowry if George dissolved their marriage, freeing her to take a second husband.

Even if Anne's marriage to the King was annulled, meaning that they could not hope for as good a return on the investment her dowry represented as they might have hoped, her father would expect her to continue to stay wed to George, knowing that even if she was no longer the sister-in-law of the Queen, she would still be the wife of an earl's heir and that was a fine match. He wouldn't welcome her if she returned home, not unless she told him the full reasons why she needed to escape her marriage to George and even then, she had no guarantee that he would not insist that her place was with her husband, regardless of his conduct, and send her straight back.

She was trapped in her marriage and, when a means of escape presented itself, she took it.

And now she could die for doing so.

"You're to blame too." She told George angrily, hating him for the arrogant smirk on his face, and for the fact that he would walk free, despite his crimes with Smeaton, while she would lose her freedom and perhaps her life for lying. "If you have been a good husband, I would have been a loving wife to you, and a loving mother to our children but you wouldn't let me! If I told anybody about what you and that peasant did…"

"But you can't." George cut her off calmly. "Not now? Who would believe you? Who would believe Lady Rochford, the woman who was so jealous of her husband's sister that she claimed that they were lovers and who would have seen them brought to the scaffold out of jealousy? No matter what you say, they'll call it a spiteful lie and they'll give it no more credence than they'd give to the ravings of a madwoman." He taunted.

She felt tears spring to her eyes but she would not allow them to fall, determined not to let him see how much his words hurt her. As they heard the heavy tread of soldiers' boots in the corridor, her heart sank but her husband's smile became very wide and very victorious.

She didn't register the identity of the man who read her the warrant for her arrest, nor did she attempt to resist or to protest when they told her that she was to pack a few of her belongings, the necessities that she would require during her period of imprisonment, and that she would have to hurry as they would need to leave with the tide. All she could see was George's mocking smile, all she could hear was the triumph in his voice as he bid her farewell, making a shallow bow in her direction before excusing himself, leaving the room and leaving her alone with her captors, neither asking them to ensure that she was well-treated, as her rank demanded, or even looking back at her as he left.

She began to laugh then.

She was aware of the fact that the men sent to arrest her would think that she had lost her wits, that they might wonder whether she was capable of understanding that they were to conduct her to the Tower and that she might not leave it alive, but she couldn't stop laughing, even when she began to grow breathless and tears started to stream down her cheeks.

She was still laughing when they led her away.

* * *

_**21st May 1536** _

Henry had half-expected that Anne would send him a message pleading illness on Sunday morning, that she would refuse to accompany him to the chapel for Mass, despite the fact that Sunday was the day when the common people were allowed to attend the same service that the King and Queen did, standing at the back of the chapel while the royal family, along with their courtiers, prayed and that they would surely expect to see her there, sitting by his side, as they had every week of their marriage before she was arrested, unless Anne was in childbed or recovering from a miscarriage. However, she did not send any message and when he made his way down to the chapel, accompanied by several favoured companions, she was there with her ladies, holding little Elizabeth by the hand.

He froze when he saw her, unable to conceal his astonishment over the fact that she was there and, for a moment, it seemed as though she had never looked lovelier or more dignified. The deep blue of her gown brought out the shade of her eyes, the silver embroidery embellishing it caught the sunlight every time she moved, making it seem as though she sparkled like a creature from another world. Her hair was down, covered with a silvery veil secured by a diadem of sapphires and diamonds. Elizabeth was also dressed in blue, looking like a miniature of her mother, despite the fact that her hair was as fair as Anne's was dark, behaving with the solemnity of a child at least several years her senior.

When he offered her his arm, Anne took it without hesitation, allowing him to lead her to the pew they usually shared, giving him a smile that thrilled him until he saw that it did not reach her eyes, which showed no hint of pleasure at his presence, and he realized that the smile was intended for the benefit of the people watching, not for him. She knew that they would want to see that the royal couple were happy together and she was willing to show them what they wanted to see, even if she did not truly feel it.

He could barely concentrate on the service Cranmer led, going through the motions of praying like a man sleepwalking, his attention constantly drifting back to the woman sitting next to him, horribly conscious of the fact that, although Anne was physically less than a foot away from him, she might as well have been in Wales.

Nothing about her behaviour could be faulted.

Part of him would have preferred if there was, as that would at least give him a pretext to seek her out and to make her engage in a conversation with him, even if he was chiding her for unfitting conduct. It would be easier for him if she would give him a valid reason to feel angry with her.

If he could feel angry with her, he wouldn't have to feel guilty.

He expected that Anne would slip away as soon as the service was over, returning to her apartment or else to Elizabeth's nursery, the only places she seemed to have been spending any time since she was released from the Tower but she surprised him again when she stayed, taking Elizabeth by the hand and leading her towards the back of the chapel, her ladies following close behind her, one of them passing a pouch of money to her.

She had clearly prepared for this; there was a cluster of people standing at the very back, men and women whose ragged garments spoke of their poverty, all of whom waited eagerly for Anne, their faces showing their gratitude before she even began to distribute the money.

Henry trailed behind her, watching and keeping his distance. When Katherine was Queen, she had distributed money to the poor on certain saints' days, a ritual that Anne continued after she became Queen. However, while the distribution of money on set days was almost ceremonial, this seemed far more spontaneous.

Anne passed down the line of beggars, passing coins into the outstretched hands, stopping occasionally to speak to the people she was passing money to. He could only hear snatches of what she was saying to them but he gathered that she was asking them about their circumstances, quizzing them about what they and their family needed and pledging to assist them, however she could.

Elizabeth watched with wide eyes, holding tightly to Anne's hand, beaming in delight when her mother passed some coins into her chubby hand so that she could pass them to one of the people, an old man who bowed before the toddler, kissing her tiny hand and blessing her and her mother.

None of them seemed to notice that Henry was there. Their attention was devoted to Anne and Elizabeth and, when Anne finished distributing money and left with her ladies, the people left in her wake called out blessings, wishing the Queen and Princess long, prosperous lives.

They didn't mention the King.


	8. Chapter 8

**_30th May 1536_ **

She was a prisoner in her own bed.

Although Anne wanted to believe her father when he told her that her conduct before her arrest was not to blame for the fact that she had been charged with adultery, and although she knew that no matter how careful she had been to preserve the proprieties, Cromwell would have found a way to twist innocent actions on her part and make it seem as though she was being unfaithful to Henry, that didn't mean that there was not some truth to George's words when he said that she needed to be more careful of her behaviour in the future.

It wasn't enough for her to be a chaste wife, she had to be careful to ensure that there could be no possible grounds for anybody to suspect that she would ever contemplate being unfaithful, and that meant that she had to make some changes in her life.

She could not be alone with any man other than her husband, not even her father or her brother as George's arrest and conviction was proof that not even their blood ties would be enough to shield them from suspicion. She could not be alone, even when she did not have a visitor, male or female, as that would mean that there would be nobody who was able to vouch for the fact that she had stayed alone, and that she was not sneaking men into her chambers when her ladies were safely out of the way and there was nobody around to see what she was doing. She would have to make sure that she was attended at all times, day and night, and by at least two of her ladies, just in case the testimony of a single lady would not be trusted.

If anybody dared to try to accuse her of impropriety or worse, her ladies would be able to swear to it that there could be no possible truth to the allegations, vowing that they were present and that she had not done anything wrong.

Before, on the nights when Henry was not sharing her bed… which meant virtually every night over the past year… her ladies took turns to sleep on a pallet just outside her bedchamber, in case she should require their service or even their company during the night should she wake but that clearly had not been enough to protect her from the vile accusations made against her.

When she tried to point out her sleeping arrangements during her trial – if one could dignify the farce of justice carried out in her husband's name by calling it that – and to argue that, even if she had wished to do so, she could not have brought a man to her bed without her lady's knowledge, appealing to her judges to understand that adultery would have been all but impossible for her, Cromwell was quick to point out that there were ways in which she could ensure that she was not caught by the lady in attendance, who would surely have never dreamed that her mistress could so dishonour her lord by bedding another man and who would naively assume that she had no reason for suspicion.

A single lady could be drugged with a sleeping potion in her wine, ensuring that she would sleep soundly, regardless of the noises she heard. If Anne and her lover were quiet, then it might never occur to the lady to open the curtain separating the bedchamber from the rest of the Queen's apartment to look in on her mistress, whom she would believe to be asleep and who she would not dare to disturb, knowing that to do so could lead to her dismissal from royal service.

Cromwell even dropped dark hints that she could have persuaded or bribed one of her ladies into ignoring what she saw and heard during the nights when she was on duty outside the bedchamber, with the thinly veiled threat that, if Anne persisted with this line of defence, she would not win an acquittal for herself or for her alleged lovers but she could be placing one or more of her ladies in jeopardy, as at least one of them would have to be charged as an accomplice and punished as such in order to refute her attempt to defend herself.

He was determined to bring her down and it would not have troubled him unduly if he had had to sacrifice the life of one more innocent person if that was what it took. It could not be alleged that the King of England was seeking to twist the law to execute his wife.

All of the peers sitting in judgement on her case were veterans of the court and, as such, they all had good cause to be aware of how little privacy a Queen was allowed, and how difficult it would be for her to carry out an adulterous liaison undetected but that did not help her cause and, deep down, Anne had not expected that it would.

Cromwell's attempts to demolish her defence were clumsy and far-fetched, to say the least – perhaps he had not anticipated that she would attempt to clear her name with such evidence and had therefore not prepared a more convincing argument against it – and Anne could see from the expressions on the peers' faces that they were far from convinced of her guilt and that, for a few of them, they would have liked to acquit her if they did not fear that there would be consequences for doing so, but that had not stopped them declaring her guilty, meekly accepting Cromwell's reasoning for why the presence of one lady could not be counted as evidence of her innocence without a murmur of protest and without questioning his argument.

Now, three of her ladies were sleeping in her bedchamber, one pallet on either side of the bed and one at the foot.

Nobody could possibly allege that she had evaded the vigilance of these ladies, and Anne had soon discovered just how effective a safeguard this would be; if she couldn't move from her bed, even now when she was wakeful and wanted to fetch a book and light a candle so that she could occupy her restless mind until morning dawned, without waking at least one of the ladies, then it was safe to say that she couldn't bring a man into her bed without them realizing it.

When she finally became Queen, after years of waiting for the title to be hers, Anne quickly realized that there was a high price to pay for her exalted position.

As Queen, she had a large household to tend to her needs, a larger household by far than she had enjoyed when she was simply Lady Anne, or even when she was Marquess of Pembroke, and as Queen, her position demanded that she be attended at virtually all times, which meant that privacy was a rarity for her. A Queen was allowed very little time by herself and Anne quickly learned to cherish her few hours of solitude, knowing that it would not be long before other demands were made on her time, with people seeking audiences with her and wanting to be received, counting it a grave insult if she would not see them – and she certainly had not been in a position where she afford to make more enemies than she already had.

Sacrificing the last of her privacy in order to ensure that she could never again be slandered as an adulteress was not easy. Part of her even feared that if she was seen to make such drastic changes to her lifestyle so soon after her arrest, it would be tantamount to an admission on her part that her previous conduct had left something to be desired, perhaps that it had even allowed for legitimate grounds for concern about her behaviour, grounds that Henry would have had reasonable cause to investigate in order to ensure that her behaviour was not placing the dignity of the Crown in question, with the implication that she bore part of the responsibility for what had happened to herself and to the men accused with her. However, Anne believed that it was a sacrifice that she had to make, to protect her good name, to guard against any allegations that might be made in the future and to secure her position and, most importantly of all, her child's.

She would give up far more than her privacy if it meant keeping Elizabeth safe… but that did not mean that the sacrifice didn't hurt, or that she didn't resent Henry and Cromwell and the Seymours and all those whose lies had made it necessary.

She hated having to have her ladies present at all times, even when she slept. She hated knowing that if she made a noise in her sleep, or if she tossed and turned in the bed, she would wake the ladies surrounding her bed and they would fuss over her like a trio of mother hens, wanting to know if all was well and if she wanted anything. They meant well, she realized that, but that did not stop her wishing that she did not need to have them with her at night.

But the only alternative, the only other guaranteed protection against slanders, would be if Henry was sharing her bed, in which case she would not need to be chaperoned by her ladies, and that thought of lying with him again made her stomach churn.

How could she possibly go back to lying with Henry as man and wife, as they had before?

How could she submit to the advances of a man who was capable of standing by and watching as she, the mother of his child and the woman he once claimed to love so dearly that he would sacrifice his kingdom for an hour in her arms, was arrested, subjected to a trial that any fool could see was nothing more than a perversion of justice, and then sentenced to death?

_"To be burned or beheaded at the King's pleasure."_

Anne didn't think that she would ever forget the terror she felt when the most senior of the peers sitting in judgement – her own uncle! – pronounced her sentence. Only somebody who had stood before their judges and heard that sentence could truly know how that felt… and of those, how many had heard the sentence and known that it was the person they loved who wanted them executed?

Knowing Henry, he probably believed that, as he had interceded at the last minute, preventing the executions and clearing Anne's name and the names of those who were wrongly accused with her, he had no reason to feel guilty over the fact that he had allowed the matter to proceed as far as it had before he did anything about it. He would ignore the knowledge that, no matter how much Cromwell might have wanted to get rid of her, he was Henry's servant and he would never have dreamed of making a move like that against her unless he believed that Henry would approve of his actions, unless he believed that, in his heart, this was what Henry _wanted_ him to do.

If anything, Henry probably thought that he deserved to be thanked for his intercession!

They were man and wife still, and man and wife they would remain.

If Anne's father was right – and his arguments were certainly convincing – then getting rid of her simply wasn't an option for Henry. He might want to annul their marriage, he might want to be able to find another wife and try to breed a family of sons with her, if he was capable of doing so, but the people would never accept his new wife as Queen, or her children as legitimate. It was amusing to think that the people who once insisted that they would never accept her as Queen instead of Katherine were now among her strongest supporters but their support was her protection against being set aside, and Elizabeth's protection against being branded a bastard and disinherited and she was deeply thankful for that.

Henry would want a son.

He knew that they were married, and that they would be staying married, whether he liked it or not, and sooner or later, he would want a son. No matter what he had said about thinking that God would not give him male children by her when she lost her last child, the "sign" he seized on to provide him with justification for ending their marriage before, he wouldn't be prepared to just give up on the idea of a son, not without them at least trying to have one. Sooner or later, he would decide that it was time for them to try and the idea made her shudder.

This time last year, she would have given just about anything to coax Henry back to her bed, knowing how vital it was for her to conceive a son, a beautiful baby boy who would be the living image of his father and who would make her position safe and who would ensure that Elizabeth would never need to worry about being branded illegitimate, pushed aside as Mary was before her and perhaps forced to rely on the kindness of her future stepmother if she was to be welcomed at court instead of left as a low-ranking member of the household of the children Henry would have with his next wife. She was far too young to serve as a maid-in-waiting, the role Mary was once ordered to assume in Elizabeth's household, but she could still have been relegated to a humble position in her younger half-siblings' household, or perhaps even Mary's if Mistress Seymour managed to persuade Henry to restore her, with her illegitimacy constantly highlighted.

She was so sure that if she could conceive again, Henry would be delighted with her and hoped that her pregnancy would be a time of joy for them, a time when she could relax and know that she was still beloved by her husband, and to enjoy a period of blissful peace before the birth, free of the strain that she was sure had led to her first miscarriage but even though he made every show of pleasure when she told him of her condition, calling for prayers to be said for the safe delivery of a prince, he virtually ignored her afterwards, constantly seeking out Mistress Seymour and making it plain to Anne and to their whole court that he preferred the company of that worthless wench to that of his own wife, the mother of his daughter and soon to be the mother of his son.

This time last year, she prayed that Henry would tear himself away from his mistresses, abandoning the ladies of the court who were all too eager to win his attention, knowing that if they could hold his affections long enough, they might derive great personal benefit, or perhaps even hope to become Queen themselves if they played their cards right, given how weak Anne's position was. She was so sure that if he would only give her a chance, she would be able to make him remember the love and passion they once shared, and hoped that if she could manage to do this, Henry would realize that, after everything they had shared, everything they meant to each other and everything they had gone through in order to be together, their marriage and their future was worth fighting for.

Now, she found herself praying that he would stay away from her bed.

Now, she didn't care if she never had another child, not as long as Elizabeth could be kept safe without a baby brother.

Now, she felt as though she would be relieved to see Henry flirting with another woman rather than angry, knowing that a rival for Henry's affections would not be a threat to her position but that she might ensure that Henry stayed away from her.

It was just over three years since they married, and almost exactly three years since she was crowned Queen but the dream had soured, turning into a nightmare.

How could she forget what Henry had done to her?

If she asked Cranmer, or one of the other chaplains of the royal household, she knew that they would tell her that it was her duty, as a Christian, to forgive those who wronged her and to show kindness towards those who disliked her and even those who had sought to do her harm but she couldn't contemplate forgiving Henry and she certainly couldn't imagine herself trying to intercede on behalf of Cromwell or her sister-in-law, asking that they might be spared the punishments they would get for their parts in the false allegations any more than she could imagine herself trying to see to it that the Seymour wench and her family were permitted to return to court and restored to royal favour.

It was too much.

It was far too much.

She lay back in bed, sighing quietly, trying not to make too much noise and wake her ladies.

The curtain separating her bedchamber from the outer chamber was almost fully closed but there was a small gap, one that was letting in the dim, greyish light that indicated that dawn was fast approaching. It was too early now for her to get up, knowing as she did that protocol would require the ladies sleeping around her bed to get up as well, as it would be unthinkable for them to remain in bed once she was up. As soon as morning dawned, she could get out of bed and do her best to distract herself from her thoughts of Henry, of Jane Seymour and of everything that had happened over the past months, working on plans for distributing charity to the poor of London, and playing with little Elizabeth. Until then, she was alone with those thoughts.

Morning could not come soon enough.

* * *

Aside from attending Mass, Anne had not ventured out among the court since her return. She kept to her apartment, or to Elizabeth's nursery and, aside from her attendants and their daughter's, the only person that she seemed to be on speaking terms with was her father.

Henry could understand why she would be reluctant to rejoin the courtiers knowing, as she must, that none of them had spoken a word in her defence when she was arrested and charged and, in many ways, he felt relieved that he did not have to join her in putting on a show for their court, pretending that all was well and that the royal marriage was as strong as ever. No matter how hard they tried, he doubted that their charade would fool many of the men and women at court, who were accustomed to observing their sovereign's behaviour closely and who would pick up on every detail. It was bound to be exhausting to have to pretend.

Now, however, his impatience was increasing.

It was almost two weeks since he had ordered Anne's release from the Tower, proclaiming her innocence to the world and, as a result, turning his back on his chance to make a new marriage, and in those two weeks, Anne had barely spoken a word to him, except to warn him not to touch her when he brought her back to the palace and to refuse his invitations to dine with him, unwilling to respond to any attempted overtures he made to her or to give him a chance to make amends for what had happened, or even to explain his side of the story.

He could understand that her time in the Tower was frightening for her, and that she was angry and upset over the fact that she had been tried and convicted for a crime she had not committed – he would have been angry over that too, in her place! – but that did not mean that he was prepared to allow her to continue to treat him like this, as though he was a monster of some kind, as though he had knowingly allowed the trials to proceed, despite knowing of her innocence, because he hoped to be rid of her.

That wasn't true!

He had truly believed what he was told when Brandon mentioned that there was cause for concern about Anne's behaviour and, when he was told that the investigation revealed that Anne had betrayed him, taking lovers and placing the succession in jeopardy, he had no choice but to consent to her trial, despite knowing the penalty she would have to pay if she was found to be guilty. He could not condone treason, even in somebody he once loved.

Anne should know this. She had encouraged him to act against Wolsey when the cardinal's betrayal was uncovered and she had not attempted to intercede to ask for leniency on More's behalf when his refusal to take the Oath condemned him to a traitor's death, despite knowing that both men were once his dear friends and that it would pain him to consent to their executions.

She had no right to continue to punish him for what had happened.

He was the King and he was her husband and, as such, he deserved to be treated with respect!

Did Anne have any understanding of what he had given up when he interceded on her behalf? Did she realize how easy it would have been for him to ignore his suspicions and to sign her death warrant instead of looking into the matter to discover the truth? Did she realize that, even after he learned that she was innocent, it would have been all too easy for him to do nothing and to allow the executions to proceed, placing his needs and the welfare of his country ahead of the life of a woman he no longer loved and who had failed to bear him an heir? Did she realize that, in helping her, he had given up his chance to marry another woman, possibly robbing his country of the prince that he might have given it had he married Jane? Did she realize that, if not for his investigation and his willingness to order her release, she would be dead now?

She might be angry but that did not mean that she could ignore what he had done for her.

Audley had stressed the importance of himself and Anne showing a united front to the people and to the court, to show them that all was well and to guard against speculation but, while Anne was seemingly willing to present a facade of unity for the sake of the common people, she was not prepared to do the same for the benefit of the courtiers, not even making a token effort at pretending for them.

Did she realize that her prolonged absence from the daily life at court was provoking gossip, gossip that he could not help but be aware of, despite the fact that conversations stilled as he approached, with no courtier daring to allude to the matter in his hearing? Did she realize that the courtiers were speculating amongst themselves about _him_ , wondering if Anne's absence and her obvious reluctance to speak with him indicated that she knew something about the trials that they did not, that she had reason to believe that Henry had given his approval to Cromwell's vile plans and that she was, quite justifiably, angry over that? Did she realize that some of them might even be laughing at him, mocking the fact that, now that Anne was calmly refusing to interact with him in any way, he needed to see her more than ever?

Did she even care what they said about him?

If she didn't, she should!

He was the King of England and the King of England should never be an object of malicious gossip or mockery in his own court, especially when all he had done was believe others, men he believed could be trusted, when they told him that he should be concerned about his wife's behaviour.

What more did she want from him?

What could he do to break through her obstinate refusal to speak to him, to hear what he had to say and to understand the truth about what had happened?

If he sent her a message, inviting her to dine with him privately, away from the prying eyes of the court, she would decline. He knew that much. She would not willingly appear in his presence, even if she was summoned, and the alternative was to send sentries to escort her to his rooms, by force if necessary – something that would only serve to make things worse, both in terms of court gossip and in terms of their relationship.

If he wanted to speak to her, he would have to be the one to seek her out.

He did not bring anybody with him when he made his way to Anne's rooms; it was bad enough that Anne's ladies would be there to see him arriving there to speak to her, as though he was a petitioner seeking an audience with the Queen, the last thing he needed or wanted was to have more people there to witness a meeting that was bound to be uncomfortable.

When he arrived at Anne's quarters, several of her ladies were there, tidying the room, but there was no sign of Anne. The ladies stiffened at his approach before sinking into low curtseys as they greeted him. Henry would have liked to believe that he was only imagining that the ladies were looking on him with scorn, inwardly condemning him for what he had allowed to happen to their mistress but he knew better than to allow himself to believe that. Like the people who had lined the streets of London and gathered outside the gates of the Tower when he went to bring Anne home, the ladies sided with Anne and their there opinion of him was unlikely to be high.

That awareness did not improve his temper but he managed to keep his tone relatively even and friendly as he addressed them. "Good morning, ladies. I have come to visit the Queen," he announced, as though this was the most normal thing in the world, as though he had no reason to know that seeing him was probably the last thing that Anne wanted to do.

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence before Madge Shelton responded, assuming the task of spokeswoman, the task that none of them wanted.

"Her Majesty the Queen is not here, Your Majesty. She is in the nursery, with Princess Elizabeth."

Her tone was cool and Henry flinched inwardly at the sound of it, remembering what Madge was like with him barely two years ago; a little shy and inclined to be giggly but affectionate and eager to please him, unable to hide her admiration. He did not keep her as his mistress for very long but their parting was a fairly amiable one, with no tears or recriminations on her part and with kind farewells and a promise that, should she need anything, he would be happy to help her however he could on his. Madge had never alluded to their relationship after it ended. She was seemingly content to remain in Anne's service and to continue as if nothing had happened, never even flirting with him after their liaison ended and, as Anne herself seemed to either be unaware of the relationship or else untroubled by it, Henry saw no harm in Madge remaining as one of her ladies.

He certainly wouldn't have thought it just that a sweet woman like Madge, who had only ever sought to please her King, should be dismissed from her post for doing so.

Now, instead of seeing him as the handsome King she once loved, she viewed him as the man who almost brought about the deaths of her cousin and of her suitor and, although his status as King meant that she couldn't breathe a word against him, least of all in his hearing, he could not control what she thought of him.

It hurt to see such clear evidence of how far he had fallen in the esteem of one of his subjects and he was glad to be able to slip away. At first, he considered that it might be better for him to wait until Anne had left the nursery – and Elizabeth usually took a nap after her noon meal, so Anne would probably slip away then, to avoid disturbing her – so that the little girl would not be involved in any dispute between himself and Anne, forced to watch while her parents behaved like strangers, or argued. However, after a few moments' reflection, he decided that he might actually be better off if little Elizabeth was present; Anne was hardly likely to unleash the storm of her temper on the father of her child when that child was present.

The apartment designated as Elizabeth's nursery during her visits to the court comprised several large, sunny rooms and when he entered, Anne and Elizabeth didn't even notice his arrival, so absorbed were they by their activity. Anne held Elizabeth in her lap as she sat before the virginals, playing a few notes herself before sitting back a little, watching with an indulgent smile as Elizabeth tried to imitate her. The toddler was beaming, enraptured by the sound that the instrument made and Henry, watching, thought that when his daughter was a little older and her hands were bigger, she was likely to make a talented musician.

Even at her tender age, she certainly seemed to have a fondness for music and she was clearly observant and clever, watching the movements of Anne's hands and imitating her with near-perfect accuracy, tilting her head slightly as she listened to the slight differences in the sounds between her playing and her mother's and then trying again, until she was satisfied with her playing. A love for music was one of the things that Henry shared with Anne, who was a very talented musician and who had even composed a few pieces, and it seemed that Elizabeth was likely to share their interest.

Once Elizabeth was finished playing, he began to applaud.

"Well done, sweetheart. That's very clever." He praised her, his smile fading when he saw Elizabeth lean closer to Anne, frowning up at him.

Anne kept an arm around Elizabeth's waist, holding their daughter close as she looked up at him. "I'd like Elizabeth to stay here at court, with us, instead of going back to Hatfield." She announced, keeping her attention directed at their daughter rather than looking up at him.

"Of course. I'd like that too." Henry was so pleased to hear her speaking to him that he thought that he would have agreed to any request she made, no matter what it was.

He was far from averse to the idea of having Elizabeth at court longer; he loved his daughter very much and he was very proud of her, enjoying showing her off to his courtiers and hearing them praise his beautiful child. Anne would be happier if their child was there, and perhaps a little likelier to be kind to him if he was willing to grant her request and, in any case, it would look better with the people if he did not separate his wife and his daughter so soon after Anne's arrest. He could remember the way people had grumbled against him for refusing to allow Katherine and Mary to be together, especially when Mary was ill and, later, when Katherine's health worsened and she was rumoured to be close to death.

He would not make the same mistake with Anne and Elizabeth.

The people certainly seemed to enjoy watching mother and daughter together when they distributed alms after Mass, so it could help his cause if they knew that the royal family were united and living under the same roof.

Anne nodded acknowledgement of his words but she didn't thank him, pointedly returning her attention to their daughter. If she had come out and said that she wanted him to leave the nursery, to leave her and Elizabeth in peace so that they could continue their impromptu music lesson, she could not have made her meaning plainer. She wanted him gone and, if the expression on Elizabeth's face was any indication, she shared her mother's sentiments.

However, Henry had no intention of being made to feel unwelcome by his own wife.

He sat down, deliberately choosing the chair nearest to Anne and pulling it even closer, until he could look over her shoulder and watch her play. She rose at once, Elizabeth still in her arms and taking a few steps away from him, holding the toddler closer to her, as though she was afraid that she might be snatched away from her.

"For God's sake, Anne, sit down! I'm not going to bite you!" He snapped impatiently, regretting the words as soon as they were spoken and feeling worse still when he saw tears begin to trickle down Elizabeth's chubby cheeks. He rose, moving towards her and Anne, forcing himself to smile to reassure her. "I'm sorry, Elizabeth, I didn't mean to shout."

"Yes, you did." Elizabeth contradicted him flatly, wrapping her arms around Anne's neck. She didn't bury her face in her mother's shoulder as another child would have. She looked him straight in the eye as she frowned up at him, her displeasure at his outburst plain. "You're being nasty to Mama, like last time." Last time she saw her Papa shouting at her Mama, Elizabeth felt too scared to tell him to stop, and her Mama was sent away for a long time, days and days and days. She wasn't going to be scared this time. What her Papa was doing was very mean and very nasty and she wasn't going to let him keep doing it. "It's not nice!"

"Sweetheart…" Anne began soothingly, casting a worried eye in Henry's direction, afraid that her little girl would rouse Henry's anger, leading him to change his mind about allowing her to remain at court, or worse.

Elizabeth was in no mood to be coaxed into silence and she paid no attention to Anne's efforts to placate her, wriggling in her arms. "Down, Mama." She commanded imperiously, waiting until Anne had set her down before standing squarely in front of Henry, her tiny hands on her hips as she scowled at him. "You were nasty." She told Henry uncompromisingly. "You were nasty and you made my Mama cry and feel scared. That's bad. It _is_ bad, Mama." She told Anne, when it looked as though her mother might try to remonstrate with her again. "You know it is."

Henry glared at Anne. "Did you put her up to this?" Was it not enough that Katherine had turned Mary against him, telling their daughter that he cared so little about her that he was prepared to see her branded a bastard because he lusted after Anne and encouraging the girl to defy him instead of counselling her to be a loving and obedient daughter, conforming to the will of her father and her King as she ought to? Now Anne had to turn little Elizabeth against him, teaching the toddler to think of the father she had adored as a monster.

"No!" Anne's response was indignant. Whatever Henry thought of her, he should know better than to think that she would try something like that. If she had had anything she wanted to say to him, she would say it herself instead of relying on a toddler to speak for her.

"Mama didn't say anything." Elizabeth told him severely. For a moment, she reminded Henry of his formidable grandmother, Lady Margaret Beaufort, the only person other than his father he ever felt overawed by as a boy. "I was there. I heard you and I know that you were nasty – and you didn't even say 'sorry' for it." Lady Bryan had explained that, when people did something unkind or thoughtless, it was good for them to tell the other person that they were sorry that they had done so and to be careful never to do it again.

If that was the rule for children, then it should be the rule for adults as well, even the King.

"You're right, sweetheart." Henry said, smiling and hoping that if he was able to satisfy Elizabeth, if he was able to win her over, it would be a good first step for him as far as her mother was concerned. He turned to look at Anne. "I'm sorry that I shouted at you." He told her, hoping that she would be able to perceive that, although Elizabeth's scolding had prompted the apology, it was still a sincere one.

"I accept your apology for shouting." Anne said tonelessly, reaching out to draw Elizabeth closer to her and trying to force a smile to her face for her child's benefit. Elizabeth was a highly intelligent child but she was still so young, too young to understand what was happening around her – and perhaps that was a mercy. In her short life, Elizabeth had never encountered a crime that could not be put right with an apology. Seeing her parents at odds had to be frightening for her, especially when the last time she had seen them speaking – or, in Henry's case, shouting – she was not able to see either of them for weeks afterwards, and was left alone in her nursery with few people paying any attention to her. It wasn't fair to argue in front of her and frighten her.

Henry nodded, taking her words as the most optimistic sign so far, and bending down to speak to Elizabeth. "Do you think that you could run and find Lady Bryan, and play with her for a while?" He asked in a coaxing tone. "I need to borrow your Mama for a little while. She and I need to talk." Elizabeth nodded solemnly. "Thank you, sweetheart." He gave his daughter a quick kiss and, before Anne could protest or plead some excuse to avoid speaking to him, he caught her hand in his, firmly tucking her arm through his and drawing her out of the room.

Once they were in the corridor, in view of several courtiers who were making their ways to various destinations, he was fairly confident that Anne would not try to struggle and pull away from him but, even so, he loosened his grasp of her only a little, not wanting to hurt her but unwilling to take the chance that she might decide to abandon dignity and try to escape him.

This was the first real opportunity he had had to get her alone since her return and he had no intention of allowing it to slip through his fingers.

Anxious to get out of the corridors, where anybody passing could see them and stare at them, Henry stopped outside a door partway down the corridor, pushing it open and checking to make sure that there was nobody there. Once he confirmed that the room was empty, he led Anne in, closing the door firmly behind him.

As soon as the door was shut, Anne wrenched her arm out of his grasp, moving as far away from him as she could, which wasn't very far, as the room was not a large one, dominated by a bed and with a few other pieces of furniture cluttering it. It must have been the chamber of a minor noble at court, somebody of sufficiently high rank to be granted a chamber of his own but who was not exalted enough to merit one of the larger, more luxurious suites.

Whoever it was who slept here, Henry doubted that they would object to their King and Queen borrowing the room for a short time – and if they did, they would never dare to say so.

Henry kept his back to the door, ensuring that Anne would only be able to leave the room by going through him. He motioned towards the table and chairs by the narrow window. "You might as well sit down." He pointed out, hiding his unease as best he could and trying to sound authoritative. Anne didn't move and he was ready to threaten to force her into the chair if she wouldn't sit down voluntarily but he stopped his tongue from speaking the words. Threats wouldn't help him. "Please," he added, more gently this time. "We need to talk."

If he thought that he would feel more at ease once they were seated opposite one another, Henry soon learned that he was mistaken. Anne opted to take a seat but, despite the fact that the table separating their chairs was a small one, it felt as though there was a wide gulf between them, and she seemed quite content to remain on her side of it, remote, untouchable and utterly silent.

He wanted to keep quiet, to make her be the first to speak but the silence stretched between them for what felt like a very long time and became so unbearable for him that he _had_ to break it.

"Master Cromwell will be tried soon, for high treason." He told her, thinking that this would be good news for her and wanting to tell her about it, even if it was likely that she already knew about it. "He will not be allowed to get away with slandering your name, my love, he will pay for it with his life."

Aside from a barely perceptible flinch at his use of an endearment, Anne didn't react.

"Say _something_." He urged her, his impatience mounting. "God knows you've never been slow to use your tongue before!" Did she do it deliberately, to provoke him? When he wanted her to keep silent, to refrain from interfering with his personal affairs and to behave with the dignity he expected of his Queen, especially when that Queen was born a commoner and owed her royal status entirely to him, Anne refused to hold her tongue and insisted on speaking about it, no matter how clear he made it that he had no intention of discussing the issue, least of all with her but now that he wanted to talk to her, she punished him with sullen silence, even averting her eyes and pointedly looking out the window instead, as though she found the sight of him offensive. "There must be something you want to talk about." After everything that had happened, there had to be and he had no intention of leaving this chamber or allowing Anne to do so until they had at least begun to talk.

Anne finally tore her gaze away from the window, spearing him with cold blue eyes. "There is something I wanted to talk to you about." Henry brightened a little at this, relieved to see that he was making some progress, even if that progress was slight, but he quickly sobered when he heard her next words. "Why did you want to annul our marriage?"

"Who told you…"

"You did, just now." Anne said calmly, stretching the truth a little; Henry's response had confirmed what she had heard from others but she didn't want to bring trouble down on the heads of Nan Saville or Archbishop Cranmer because they had told her the truth. "Why?"

"I… Does it really matter?" Henry blustered, not knowing what to say to her about that. He had anticipated that she would want to know why he had allowed her to be arrested and tried and was ready with explanations about how Brandon had come to him with stories about her conduct, stories that he felt he had no choice but to investigate, and assurances that he had never suspected that Cromwell had his own agenda with the investigation and that he was shocked and devastated when the man returned to him to tell him that he and Rich had uncovered enough evidence of adultery to warrant a trial. He had not expected that she would know that he had planned to dissolve their marriage, or that this would be what she would choose to talk about.

"It matters." She stated flatly.

"Why?" He demanded, feeling defensive and hating the feeling. "I'm sure that your father or somebody has told you by now that our marriage can't be annulled, not after everything that's happened. Why does it matter if Archbishop Cranmer was investigating it before?"

"It matters because if you asked him to 'investigate' the marriage, you might as well have been _ordering_ him to bring you a list of reasons for why it should be declared invalid. You know that as soon as he was asked, he would know that you were just looking for an excuse to dissolve our marriage. Be honest with yourself, for once – you know that you would have been furious if he came back to you and told you that our marriage was good. You would have ordered him to look into it again, more closely this time, or found somebody else to do it, somebody who would know what verdict you wanted and who would be willing to give it to you." Henry looked as though he would have liked to deny that but she didn't give him a chance. She looked him directly in the eye, her voice betraying her anger towards him. "It matters because, if you annulled our marriage, Elizabeth would have been branded a bastard."

That was undeniable. Henry could try to placate her with assurances that he would have continued to recognize Elizabeth as his daughter and to ensure that she was cared for but he couldn't deny that their child would have been downgraded from princess and heiress presumptive to plain Lady Elizabeth as soon as his marriage to Anne was declared null and void, nor could he deny that he had been well aware of that fact when he instructed Cromwell to let Cranmer know what he wanted him to do and that he had chosen to proceed regardless, knowing the impact it would have on his soon to be motherless little daughter.

"What I don't understand is why." Anne continued bitterly. "I was sentenced to death, Henry, I was going to _die_. As soon as I was dead, you'd be a widower. You would be free to marry whomever you wanted to and nobody would be able to say that your next marriage was invalid or that your new wife wasn't Queen." Whether people had supported her or Katherine as Queen before, in death, neither of them would be able to lay claim to the title. Whether the people liked Jane Seymour or disliked her, they wouldn't be able to deny that she was Queen or question the legitimacy of any children she bore. "I don't understand why you would want to annul our marriage when the only person who would suffer because of it was Elizabeth. She's a child, Henry, a little girl! You were already taking her mother from her, so why did you want to take more? Was it to punish me more, even if you had to do it through our daughter? Or do you just hate us both so much that you'd do anything to hurt us?" Her voice was rising steadily in volume and she made no attempt to lower it. She had to be angry. If she didn't focus on her anger over this, she'd cry and she had no intention of shedding a tear in front of him.

She would not let him see her cry over him, not again.

"I don't hate Elizabeth!" Henry protested. "I love her."

Anne snorted in derision. "Really? Then why were you willing to hurt her like that? What did she do to deserve that from her father?"

He could have told her that he knew that the Emperor would wish to push for Mary's restoration and that, even if he might be prepared to allow the issue if his cousin's position to be set aside, temporarily or otherwise, if Elizabeth was also named a bastard, he would be disgusted and dismayed if he saw that the daughter of the woman he had never accepted as Queen would be allowed to continue to enjoy the status of a princess while his cousin remained illegitimate, and that there was a chance that it would make it more difficult for him to secure an alliance.

However, this was hardly news to him.

He had always known that the Emperor did not accept Elizabeth as legitimate and that he wished to see Mary restored as princess and as heir, even if he was prepared to accept the continuation of Henry's marriage to Anne now that Katherine was safely dead, but he had not allowed that to lead him to accept that there was any truth to the allegations that Elizabeth was a bastard and he had not allowed the Emperor's wishes to lead him to find a way to restore Mary legally. On the contrary, he had always made it plain to the other monarch that any alliance between them would be conditional on the Emperor acknowledging Anne as his Queen and Elizabeth as his legitimate daughter and the rightful heiress to the throne, at least until she had a brother.

He could have said that, in his love for Jane, he longed to honour their children above all others and, although their sons would take precedence over Elizabeth by virtue of their sex, he couldn't bear the thought of a daughter Jane bore him ranking behind his daughter by Anne. He wanted to show Jane how much he loved and esteemed her by showing her that it would be the children she bore him would be the ones he honoured as the true Princes and Princesses of England, the ones he wanted to leave as his heirs. There was a great deal of truth to this but he knew better than to think that giving voice to this thought would endear him to Anne.

She would already be angry enough about the fact that he had been paving the way for Jane to become his next Queen even before she was convicted without him adding to that by admitting that he was prepared to disinherit their child for the sake of any daughter Jane might bear him.

He could have reminded her that, when he sought to set Katherine aside, knowing that their marriage was accursed and wanting to marry Anne, Anne had not voiced a word of protest over the prospect of Mary – who had enjoyed the rights and privileges of a Princess of England far longer than Elizabeth had, and who had even been honoured with the additional title of Princess of Wales when it looked as though her succession was assured – being branded a bastard.

She had not tried to dissuade him from annulling his marriage to Katherine, she had not offered any suggestions about how he could annul his marriage yet ensure that his daughter would continue to be recognized as a legitimate princess, she had not voiced an objection to Mary being sent to Hatfield to live as a humble attendant, one of many in Elizabeth's royal household, when she refused to accept her new status as a bastard and she had not tried to stop him passing the Act of Succession to protect their daughter's rights against her half-sister's claims, so he could have argued that she had no right to complain if he chose to declare Elizabeth illegitimate, as he had Mary… but even if Anne had not objected to his plans, _he_ was the one who chose to do these things, without Anne ever asking it of him, and Henry couldn't help but think that he might have proceeded even if she sought to dissuade him.

He loved Anne and would have wanted to please her, if he could, and he would have been touched by her desire to be kind to his daughter but he also firmly believed that Mary was illegitimate, born of an accursed union, and he wanted to make that plain, to Mary, to Katherine and to all of England and Europe.

There were excuses he could come up with for why he was willing to allow their daughter to be declared illegitimate, but none of them sounded plausible to him and if he found them unconvincing, so would she.

So he said nothing, waiting for Anne to continue.

"I couldn't believe it when I heard it, not at first." Anne was saying quietly, a frown creasing her brow, betraying her anger and, worse still, her disappointment.

She wasn't looking at him anymore. She had turned towards the window but she wasn't looking out on the gardens below either, she was looking beyond them, at something he couldn't see. Was she thinking of the chamber where she was kept at Tower? Of the courtroom where she was tried and sentenced? Was she imagining the execution that might easily have taken place?

Henry didn't know.

Anne chuckled softly, humourlessly. "There weren't many things I could be glad about after I was arrested, Henry, I shouldn't need to tell you that but at least I could be glad that, no matter what happened to me, Elizabeth was safe and that she would be well cared for, that as long as she was a Princess of England she would never want for anything and nobody would dare to harm her. I thought that, whatever happened between us, you wouldn't punish Elizabeth for it. She was innocent and I was sure that you knew that and that you would protect her, especially when you were going to be the only parent she had left. Do you know what it felt like to learn that I was wrong?" She demanded, looking at him again and making him feel as though he wanted nothing more than to run, as far away from her accusing eyes as he could. "How can I forgive you for being willing to hurt our child? How can I trust that you won't try to do it again in the future?"

She was safe as Queen, she knew that, but that did not mean that Elizabeth's position as her father's heir was secure. Henry could pass another Act of Succession tomorrow, restoring Mary as heiress ahead of their daughter. He could sire a bastard son next year – or be convinced that he had by a shrewd, unscrupulous mistress – and he could load that bastard with titles, building him up as a rival heir to Elizabeth and disinheriting their daughter for the boy's sake.

He was King.

There were very few limits to what he could do.

He could give and he could take, as he pleased.

Anne might be able to call her position safe but the same was not true of Elizabeth's and she hated knowing that her daughter's future depended so heavily on the father who had proved so willing to disinherit her, only a matter of weeks ago.

Of all Henry's betrayals, she hated him most for his betrayal of Elizabeth.

It was unforgivable.

Feeling that, if she stayed in his presence any longer, she would scream or weep or strike him or claw his face, Anne rose abruptly, dashing towards the door. She had pulled it open and run out into the corridor by the time Henry got to his feet to chase after her and keep her from leaving, disappearing as quickly as her feet could carry her.

Uncomfortably conscious of the fact that there were more than a few courtiers milling about the corridors – perhaps they had loitered there once they knew that he and Anne were together, hoping to hear a few snatches of their conversation – and he hastened away as fast as his dignity allowed, refusing to meet anybody's eyes and hoping that they had not heard too much of what Anne had said to him.

He had wanted to talk to her, had wanted to straighten things out and to explain himself but Anne was unwilling to listen to excuses; instead of their conversation making him feel better, more at ease with what had happened, he felt worse and he resented her for making him feel that way, as though he was in the wrong.

She shouldn't be able to make him feel like that, not when his only crime was that he had believed men he thought to be trustworthy, and when he had put things right as soon as he knew of the wrong that was committed in his name. She should be able to understand the truth about what had happened and understand that, in a way, he was as much a victim of this ugly affair as she was.

She shouldn't be able to make him feel like he was wrong.

So why could she?

* * *

"I have to leave. I can stay here no longer." There was an edge of hysteria to Brereton's voice, one that told of the strain the man's mind had been under since his plan to bring Anne down, even if he had to sacrifice his own life, had failed so miserably. The knowledge that, far from being destroyed by the allegations of adultery, Anne's position was actually stronger than before ate at him, leaving him nervous and fretful. "I cannot stay in this court when that harlot rules over it, in triumph." His voice was full of loathing, for Anne and for himself for failing to destroy her hold on power when he had the chance. "I must go to Rome, to His Holiness."

"I understand that you wish to leave, my friend," Chapuys began gently, trying to hide the dismay he felt at the prospect of Brereton's departure.

The other man was one of very few in England he deemed trustworthy and, over the past few years, he had grown accustomed to dealing with him. Brereton might try his patience at times, especially when his zeal for the task he was charged with overrode his good sense but Chapuys was still loath to lose his ally. It had been a comfort to know that, in Brereton, he had a man who not only hated Anne but who was as eager to see her brought down and to see Princess Mary restored. In the coming weeks and months, the question of Mary's position at court and in the line of succession would be a crucial issue and he badly wanted to have somebody else there who could be trusted to champion the interests of England's true princess.

"For Princess Mary's sake, could you not reconsider?" He attempted to reason with him. "Her Highness will need all of the good and loyal friends she can get, now that the Concubine has power once more." He didn't add that, thanks to Anne's newfound hold on the hearts of so many of the English people, it would be all too easy for her to channel support in her child's direction, undermining Mary's position in their hearts.

It was true that the people were once loyal to Queen Katherine but a living Queen had power that a dead one lacked.

As long as Anne was keeping herself and her little daughter in the public eye, encouraging the English people to think fondly of her and to look to the brat, Elizabeth, as their future Queen, bribing them with generous gifts of money in order to buy their loyalty, she would rob Mary of much of the support that she once enjoyed, the support that she should still enjoy and that she would need if she was to have any hope of being restored to her rightful place.

Chapuys was confident that if the King could be prevailed upon to summon his daughter back to court, if Princess Mary was in a position where she could appear before the people instead of being hidden away at Hatfield, forbidden to leave the palace without supervision in order to ensure that she had no chance to appear before the people and appeal to their love for her, the people would soon remember who their affection and loyalty should be directed at. They would abandon Anne and her child in droves, flocking to Mary and crying out for her restoration and, if that happened the King, who loved to be kindly thought of by his subjects, would surely consent.

For any of that to happen, Mary needed to be called back to court, she needed to be able to see her father frequently, her presence reminding him of the great love he once cherished for her, and this needed to happen soon, before it was too late, before the Emperor sent a message to his ambassador ordering him to cease to press for Mary's restoration and to focus instead on securing the friendship of the King of England, even if that meant that little Elizabeth had to be recognized as heir ahead of her half-sister.

Once Chapuys received the message, he would be obliged by duty and by honour to carry out his master's wishes faithfully, regardless of his personal feelings, but until the message was actually placed into his hands, he could assume that the Emperor's former orders about pressing for Mary's restoration still applied, even if he suspected that this was no longer the case.

It was no secret that the King of France was redoubling his efforts to secure an alliance with England, and he certainly had no reason to want to see Princess Mary restored to her rights and every reason to rejoice over the fact that the harlot was in power once more. Her desire for a French alliance was well known, as was her dislike of the Emperor. Anne still bore a grudge towards the Emperor because of his support of his aunt; had it not been for his refusal to stand by while his aunt was wronged and his family's honour insulted by the implication that one of their number had lived in sin for many years and that her child was a bastard, the King of England might have been able to persuade the Holy Father to grant him the annulment he sought.

A lasting alliance between England and France would harm Imperial interests but it would also do untold damage to Mary's chances of restoration and, for her sake as much as for the sake of his own country, Chapuys was determined to do all in his power to keep such a thing from happening.

Brereton hesitated for a moment, clearly moved by the reference to Princess Mary, whom he pitied deeply and longed to see restored, but he shook his head regretfully, unwilling to be swayed. "I can do no more here, Eustace." He said quietly, avoiding Chapuys' eyes. He didn't need the other man to tell him that he was a coward, he knew that much already. He was a coward and he was a failure. He had had several chances to kill the harlot and he had allowed each of them to slip through his fingers. There could be no further attempts now, they would do Princess Mary's cause more harm than good as there was an excellent chance that Anne's relatives would seize the opportunity to point out that Mary was the most likely suspect, capitalizing on Anne's recent popularity to bring the Princess to the scaffold for murder, the better to secure the succession for Anne's child. "I have proven unworthy for the task that His Holiness charged me with." He admitted, frowning. "I must go to Rome, and beg for his forgiveness."

There would be no persuading him, Chapuys could see that much by looking at the other man. He was determined to leave and, looking at him, Chapuys couldn't help but wonder if it might be for the best; after the disappointment the man felt over his failure, perhaps it could even be dangerous for him to be kept around in case, in his unstable state of mind, he said or did something that would put their cause, and Princess Mary's, in jeopardy.

"Perhaps that would be for the best," he said at last, inwardly hoping that, when Brereton made his report to the Holy Father, he would send another assassin, one who would not fail. "Have you sought leave from the King to depart from the court?" He asked, turning to the practical issues of the situation and knowing that, as a member of the court and as one who held a position as one of the King's grooms, at least nominally, Brereton would require the King's consent if he wished to leave the court.

"No." Brereton shook his head rapidly, his gaze dropping to the floor. "But I've made arrangements. I leave tonight, and there's a ship that will take me to Spain. I'll travel to Rome from there."

"Perhaps it would not be wise to leave without the King's permission," Chapuys suggested, thinking ahead and knowing that this could prove to be a foolish move on Brereton's part. Under the circumstances, the King would not seek to punish him for the insult, as he might with another man, under other circumstances but it was certain to make it difficult, to say the least, for him to ever return to court and would provide the King with an excuse to refuse to receive him, should the Holy Father manage to persuade him to return to England and to try again to rid the country of the harlot. "If you wait a little longer, I am sure that you will be granted permission."

"I can't wait!" Brereton exclaimed, his voice becoming shrill. If he didn't leave now, he feared that he might never be able to do so. The Boleyn family would know that he had falsely confessed to adultery with Anne, even if they remained unaware of his motives, and he would not put it past them to seek to avenge themselves on him for doing so. "I have to go! Now! Excuse me." He said hastily, seeing a small knot of courtiers approaching and taking advantage of the opportunity to slip away, knowing that it would do neither of them any good if he, one of the men accused with Anne, was seen speaking to the Imperial ambassador, who was known to be no friend to her.

Chapuys watched him go, dismayed. He knew that Brereton was likely to keep his word, slipping away from Whitehall like a thief in the night and embarking on his journey to Rome. If he made it there, he would seek the Holy Father's protection and it was likely that he would remain in Rome for the rest of his days, perhaps joining a religious order, abdicating the task of bringing Anne down and leaving it to others to deal with her.

For a moment, he was very tempted to follow the other man's example, contacting the Emperor and asking that he be replaced as ambassador to England. He had served for a long time, longer than many ambassadors did, and nobody could deny that he had served under difficult circumstances, weathering a diplomatic storm as well as any man could have. Nobody could deny that he had earned the right to rest now and it was likely that the Emperor would consent to recall him, sending another man to take over from him in dealing with the King of England... but he couldn't do it.

Princess Mary had lost enough support already without Chapuys leaving too.

He could remember when the King's Great Matter dominated the English court, and beyond, a time when Whitehall was a very uncomfortable place for the Imperial ambassador, who had to balance his master's family feeling for the unhappy Queen, along with the loyalty he himself felt towards her, with the need to ensure that relations between England and Spain were maintained as much as possible, enough to guard against the King of England being driven into a permanent alliance with France. When the job became so difficult and so uncomfortable for him that the English court became unbearable for him, Chapuys petitioned the Emperor for leave to resign his post and return to Spain.

However, although that permission was granted, with the Emperor able to understand how difficult it was for his representative to deal with the King of England, it was not long before Chapuys appeared before him again, this time asking if he might resume his post and return to England, not wanting to abandon Queen Katherine at a time when she was in great need of support.

He had not abandoned the mother and he would not abandon her daughter either, not as long as there was anything he could do to help Princess Mary.

The Great Hall was teeming with people when he arrived, most of whom stepped out of the way as he approached, inclining their heads in a gesture of respect. When he passed the Earl of Wiltshire, however, the man stared at him with a coldly contemptuous expression on his face, as though Chapuys was nothing more than vermin that had managed to make its way into the palace and who no more belonged there than rats or fleas did. He was standing directly in Chapuys' path but it was plain that he had no intention of moving. He remained where he was, forcing Chapuys to veer around him.

Shortly after the harlot suffered a miscarriage, her father sought Chapuys out, making an attempt at reconciling with the other man, as though a shared flagon of wine could wipe away the animosity between Chapuys, his master and the Boleyn family in the past, or cause Chapuys to forget all of the pain that this man had caused to so many people, from Queen Katherine to good men like Thomas More and Bishop Fisher, all because of his ambitions for his daughter.

Diplomacy had prevented him from flinging the wine back in the man's face when it was offered to him but Chapuys would dearly have loved to do so, to let this man, a man willing to prostitute his daughters for his own advancement and who dared to slander Christ's apostles as liars and charlatans, know exactly what he thought of him.

Boleyn's face bore a faintly triumphant expression when Chapuys passed him – and perhaps not entirely without cause, though it pained Chapuys to think of it. He surely knew, as virtually everybody at court did by now, that his daughter had no need to fear that her union with the King would be exposed as the unlawful farce that it was and it was plain that he believed that this meant the end of any hopes Chapuys had of bringing about Princess Mary's restoration.

They would have to see about that.

Chapuys certainly was not about to admit defeat without a fight.

When he saw the King approach with the Duke of Suffolk, the two men conversing, Chapuys hastened towards them. The Duke of Suffolk and his wife were both fondly disposed towards the Princess Mary and disliked Anne Boleyn, even though circumstances had often prevented them from advertising that fact, for fear that it would cost the Duke his place in the King's affections. The Duke of Suffolk was likely to voice his support if Chapuys broached the subject of Mary's restoration in his presence, so Chapuys intended to seize the opportunity.

He could hear snatches of what the King was saying as he approached; "stubborn, pig-headed woman... tried talking to her but she... don't know what she wants me to say, Charles!"

His heart lightened at the King's words and, if not for the fact that years in diplomatic service had helped him learn to conceal his emotions rather masterfully, he would have grinned widely.

Brereton might be leaving but he had another ally, an unwitting one and one who was sure to be disgusted if she ever realized how much she was helping him: Anne herself.

As he had told Princess Mary when he saw her at Hatfield, the harlot's behaviour was foolish, bordering on idiocy. Instead of being relieved about her undeserved reprieve and focusing her energies on seeking to charm the King again, winning her way into his affections once more, Anne was treating him with scorn, heaping bitterness on him over what had happened, something that was guaranteed to make the King lose patience with her and, instead of seeking to placate her and to make amends for what had happened, perhaps by pointedly honouring their brat ahead of his trueborn daughter, it was more likely that he would wish to spite her and, hopefully, the King's punishment for Anne would be to restore Mary as Princess of Wales and as his legitimate heir ahead of Elizabeth, the positions that justice demanded that she hold.

"Your Majesty? Forgive me for interrupting..."

"What is it, Your Excellency?" Henry asked, feeling irritated at the interruption but hiding that feeling. He had not yet ruled out the possibility of an Imperial alliance.

"If I may, Your Majesty, I wish to speak to you about the possibility of an alliance between England and my country, an alliance that my master greatly desires." Chapuys began. "I was discussing it with Master Cromwell... before." As soon as he said it, he wondered whether he might have made a strategic error by mentioning the former chancellor. Master Cromwell had been in favour of the alliance but the King might deem that to be grounds to abandon the idea altogether, given that Cromwell was now firmly out of favour and likely to be put on trial for high treason before he was much older. Not wanting to give the King a chance to dwell on Cromwell, he soldiered on. "I believe that such an alliance would be advantageous for both our countries."

"I am sure that you do, Your Excellency." Henry responded neutrally, not wanting to appear either too eager or too reluctant.

"But, as Your Majesty knows, the Emperor wished to make it plain that there was a certain issue of vital importance, one that must be agreed upon before any alliance can be made."

"And what is that?" Henry knew what the other man was hinting at but he had no intention of making things too easy for Chapuys and, in his present mood, he had scant patience for a diplomat who was reluctant to come out and say what he meant.

"The Emperor is concerned for his cousin, the Lady Mary's Grace." Much as he would have liked to refer to Mary by her title as Princess, Chapuys didn't dare to do so but, even though he used the title that the King had decreed for his daughter, he imbued his tone with the respect that a Princess of the blood royal deserved, wanting them to know how he viewed Mary. "As I mentioned to Your Majesty before, the Emperor wishes for the restoration of some relationship between England and Rome, and he also wishes to see the Lady Mary restored to the succession."

It was the Emperor's desire to see his cousin restored to the succession ahead of her young half-sister but, when he relayed those instructions to Chapuys, he cautioned him to tread carefully with regard to Elizabeth's position. What mattered most was that the King consent to Mary's restoration to the succession; even if she was placed behind Elizabeth, they could work towards improving her position at a later date.

"I see." Henry said, his mind awhirl.

He could agree to the ambassador's demands, here and now – something that he was sure would astound Chapuys. He could vow that Mary would be legitimised by Act of Parliament within a matter of weeks, restored as a Princess and placed ahead of Elizabeth in the succession. It would certainly teach Anne that, even if her position as Queen was safe, it did not give her leave to do as she pleased and she should still remember that he was her King. He had the power here, not her, and if he wished for her daughter to have to take a step back in favour of Mary, there was nothing that Anne could do about it.

She was the one who had something to lose here, not him.

What did it matter to him which of his daughters became Queen once he was gone?

He was ready to promise. The words were on the tip of his tongue and, although Brandon did not say anything, although he did not even make a gesture indicating his recommendation, one way or another, he could sense that his friend would love to hear him speak the words that would restore Mary to the succession... but he didn't speak them.

If Mary became Queen, he knew his daughter well enough to know that her first act would be to call upon Parliament to declare his marriage to her mother to be a true and lawful union – something that would brand Elizabeth a bastard and that would lead to Anne losing the title of Queen Dowager, as he had married her during Katherine's lifetime. Mary was very much her mother's creature and she would long to vindicate Katherine in the eyes of the people, even if she had to brand him, her own father, as a liar and a man who had cast his true wife aside in order to live in sin with his mistress in order to do so. Mary would concern herself with Katherine's reputation and she would not care for his, or for the plans he had made.

Everything that he had accomplished, severing his country from the corruption of Rome and founding a strong Church of England, headed by the King, and suppressing the monasteries that were nothing more than hotbeds of corruption, Mary would undo as soon as the crown was safely on her head.

But that wasn't why he remained silent, at least not entirely.

Anne had accused him of punishing Elizabeth, of not caring enough for their child to see that she was protected and of being willing to hurt her by branding her a bastard when he did not need to do so in order to be free to make a new marriage.

She believed that he hated her and their daughter so much that he wanted to hurt them, however he could, even if that meant downgrading their child.

There had been nothing he could say to refute her accusations, nothing he could say that would have convinced Anne that he loved Elizabeth and that he would never have willingly hurt her.

He told Brandon that he didn't know what Anne wanted him to say but maybe she didn't want him to say anything. After what had happened, words were so empty. Maybe she wanted him to do something, something that would convince her that he had their beloved child's interests at heart and that he was going to ensure that Elizabeth's position was protected from now on.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his father-in-law approaching and knew that the man was listening to every word they were saying, and that he was bound to report everything to Anne as soon as he saw her again.

The sight of Boleyn decided the issue for him.

He placed a hand on Chapuys' shoulder, giving the man a warm smile. "You have visited my daughter at Hatfield, I believe?" He said, deliberately refraining from using any title to refer to Mary. Chapuys nodded confirmation. "Good. I wish for you to pay her another visit."

"It would be my honour and my pleasure, Your Majesty." Chapuys said fervently, glancing back at Boleyn and permitting himself a small smirk of satisfaction when he saw the dismayed expression on his face. "Has Your Majesty any message that you wish for me to bring?" He prompted, imagining Mary's delight when he was able to bring her news that, at last, after so many years of misery and uncertainly, she was to be restored to her proper position.

"Yes. You will tell my daughter that it is my pleasure that she should come to court, at once." Henry instructed him, pausing for a moment and waiting for Chapuys to show his pleasure at this news before he spoke the words that he knew would wipe the smile off the other man's face. "Her Majesty the Queen has asked that the Princess Elizabeth should stay here at court, with us, and I was pleased to grant the request. As the Lady Mary is one of the attendants in the Princess' household, she will have to come to court if she is to be able to carry out her duties – there's no sense in her remaining at Hatfield when Princess Elizabeth is here, is there?" He asked in a mock-jovial tone, feeling absurdly pleased to see how astounded Chapuys was by his words.

It took him a moment to recover his tongue. "But, Your Majesty, the Emperor wants..."

"Do you think I care what the Emperor wants?" Henry demanded sharply. "What business is it of his? I know that I would never demand that he place one of his bastards in the line of succession ahead of his legitimate son and heir? What right does he have to dictate to me what I should do with regard to my bastard daughter? It is my wish that the Lady Mary should return to court at once. It is my wish that the Lady Mary will serve as a handmaid to my beloved legitimate daughter, Princess Elizabeth, and that she will learn to resign herself to her true station in life. This is the message that you will bring her. I will send a company of my soldiers to see you safely to Hatfield and, when you return, you will return with the Lady Mary."

Boleyn wasn't the only one listening to them now. Silence had descended on the Great Hall, stilling chatter, and everybody was listening with bated breath to their King's declaration. Henry was glad. He wanted every man and woman in his court to know how the land lay.

"Your Majesty..." Brandon began to speak, wanting to remonstrate with his friend, to remind him that, even if he wanted to please Anne and to win her forgiveness, he should not attempt to do so at Mary's expense, to remind him of his love for his elder daughter and that he should not be too vehement about his refusal to allow her the status of a princess in case he changed his mind at a later date but Henry didn't even look in his direction. He just raised one hand, indicating that Brandon should be silent, and Brandon didn't dare to ignore the gesture.

"Do you understand my orders, Your Excellency?" Henry asked coldly, holding Chapuys' gaze.

"Yes, Your Majesty." Only a great effort at self-control on Chapuys' part allowed him to refrain from arguing, knowing that if he dared to say a word against the King, he would drive him into a French alliance, one that would work against Imperial interests. Had the choice been his, he would have struck Henry as hard as he possibly could, knocking him to the ground with a single punch for daring to speak as he had about Mary.

"Then you should begin to make preparations for journey – at once!" Henry snapped, watching the ambassador bow deeply before backing out of his presence. Brandon clearly wanted to say something but he didn't want to hear it. "Not a word, Charles." He warned. He could see Boleyn standing a few yards away from them, a satisfied expression on his face and when Henry met his gaze, he could see that although the other man was still angry with him over what happened, his pleasure over his declaration was unfeigned. He inclined his head in his direction. "My Lord Wiltshire."

"Your Majesty." Boleyn bowed before asking permission to withdraw, permission that Henry granted all too readily, well able to guess who Boleyn would visit as soon as he left the Hall.

He would tell Anne about what had happened and she would know that, whatever she thought of him, he still loved Elizabeth and she had no need to fear for their daughter's future.

It was a beginning, at least.

* * *

It would have been her wedding gown.

The seamstress hired to help Jane and her maid sew the gown had remarked more than once that it was unlucky for a prospective bride to begin to stitch her wedding gown before her betrothal was finalized, backing up her warnings with stories about women of her acquaintance who had made the mistake of doing so, only for the man they hoped to marry to die or to set his sights on another woman instead – though she had not dared to point out that Jane's actions were doubly unlucky, as the woman whose death would make the marriage possible still drew breath.

Jane had not listened to her.

Her father and brother both stressed that, as soon as Anne was convicted and sentenced to death, it would only be a matter of a few days at the very most before the King came calling, asking for her hand in marriage. He would want the marriage to take place as soon as possible, and it was in their best interests that the union was solemnized before some other family at court could take it into their heads to try to turn the King's affections towards a daughter or sister of their family, hoping that she would be able to charm the King and snatch the throne out from under Jane.

They were too close to winning glory to see it slip through their fingers because of a delay.

When the King proposed marriage, they would have to be ready for the wedding and that meant that Jane's wedding gown would have to be sewn and waiting for her.

Her father's face was soft with affection and pride as he showed her the large, carved trunk in his bedchamber, opening it to reveal the exquisite gowns that had made up her mother's trousseau all those years ago, showing her the dainty gown of ivory satin that Margery Wentworth, a celebrated beauty, had worn for the wedding ceremony that united her with John Seymour.

Tears glistened in his eyes as he told her that her mother would have wanted her eldest daughter to wear her wedding gown when the time came to marry, stressing how proud he was and how proud her mother would have been to know that their Janey was to be Queen, fondly assuring her that, although she was not a princess, she was all the King could hope for in a bride, and more.

Although the material was beautiful, carefully preserved so that it did not show its age, the gown itself was old-fashioned. Jane would never be a woman who concerned herself overmuch with matters of dress, deeming modesty to be a virtue that no young lady should lack, but even she knew that for her wedding to the King, the ceremony would be a public one, witnessed by all of the court, and she would have to look her best so she made no protest when her father engaged the services of a seamstress to help her unpick the old gown and fashion it into a new, stylish one.

It was to be a gown fit for a Queen.

Instead, it was a gown that she was destined never to wear.

Had the seamstress been right, after all?

Had she tempted Fate by beginning to sew her wedding gown before the King had asked her to be his wife, while Anne was still alive? Had she ensured that her wedding would never happen, that the gown she had sewn while dreaming of the golden future she confidently expected would instead have to be relegated to a chest somewhere, forgotten for years, until some other Seymour girl needed to wear it for her wedding?

Jane was not an especially superstitious person as a rule but, in this case, she couldn't help but wonder if things could have been different if she had not begun to sew her wedding gown so prematurely. The King had hinted that he wanted to marry her but should she have waited until he made his intentions clearer to her, formally asking for her hand in marriage? Would it have made any difference if she had? And did it really matter whether or not it would have?

Whatever the reason for it, it did not change the facts.

She would never be able to marry the King now.

Anne was the King's wife and she would remain the King's wife until the day one of them died. In time, if the King could make the succession safe, Anne's child would sit on the throne.

Jane's dreams had to be forgotten, locked away like her wedding gown.


	9. Chapter 9

**_31st May 1536_ **

When he told Mary what her father had ordered, Chapuys was dismayed but not surprised to see the young girl crumple to the ground, as though the words he was obliged to speak had been a physical blow, sinking into a dead faint. He caught her before she could hit the ground and do herself a further injury, cradling her in his arms and carrying her through the corridors to the chamber assigned to her when Anne was first arrested, less than a month ago, brusquely ordering one of her maids-in-waiting to fetch a physician to tend to her mistress.

The second maid-in-waiting remained in the chamber with them, as the King's daughter could not be left alone with any man, even when the King was insisting that his daughter was a bastard rather than a princess and even when the man in question was the Imperial ambassador, a man old enough to be her father. She hung back by the door, as far away from them as she could stand without actually leaving the room altogether, in order to grant them a measure of privacy, should Mary wish to speak to him when she awoke.

God knew that they might not have many opportunities to speak privately, away from unfriendly ears, in the future if the King's attitude was any indication.

Mary's face was as pale as the bleached linen sheets on her bed and she lay so still that Chapuys feared for her. He grasped her wrist between two fingers, feeling that her heart was beating rapidly, and felt a slight measure of relief when he saw her eyelids fluttering slightly, although she did not yet open her eyes.

He had heard of cases where a particularly violent and unpleasant shock could kill a person and, for a dreadful moment, he was afraid that that might happen to Mary.

She had never been strong, even during her carefree, indulged childhood as the darling of both of her parents and as the acknowledged heiress to the throne but it was undeniable that the hardships of the past few years had taken a bitter toll on the young girl, who had suffered greatly during the years while the Concubine held power, years during which Mary's friends had prayed that the King would relent and treat her more kindly, rather than continuing to humiliate her and to exert pressure on her to repudiate herself and her mother.

And for a short time, it had seemed as though those prayers were to be answered...

When he looked at their surroundings, he was pleased to see that the apartment that had been allotted to Mary after Anne's arrest was quite a large one, and well-furnished. It was not the kind of accommodations that a princess merited, of course, and compared to the suite of rooms that made up little Elizabeth's nursery, Mary's apartment was almost Spartan, but it was certainly an improvement over the room the young girl was assigned when she first came to live at Hatfield more than two years ago, obliged to leave Ludlow Castle, which had been her home as Princess of Wales, so that she could be forced to act as a servant to her baby half-sister.

The first time Chapuys was allowed to visit Mary, less than a week after Anne was arrested, she showed him the room that had been hers until her father gave orders that she should be moved to more comfortable accommodations, and he was angry and astounded when he saw how poorly she had been housed.

The small, dark, bare chamber was unfit for anybody save the lowest-ranking of menial servants and, but for the fact that he knew Mary to be truthful and was confident that she would not have lied to him or sought to exaggerate the hardships she was enduring, he would never have believed that anybody would dare to house the King's acknowledged daughter, the Emperor's cousin, a girl with English and Spanish royal blood flowing through her veins, in such unsuitable circumstances but the King had and, by all accounts, it had been at his express command that Princess Mary was so housed, despite the fact that Hatfield was a large manor, one in which there were many more suitable apartments in which the young girl could have been housed.

The King had been so determined to see his daughter yield and to prove to his Concubine that it was their brat he honoured as the Princess of England rather than his trueborn daughter that he was willing to allow Mary to be lodged so poorly, sending a message to the household of attendants he had supplied for the brat that Princess Mary no longer enjoyed his affection or his protection and that they should consider themselves free to humiliate her and treat her with scorn and disrespect if they wished. He would not intercede on Mary's behalf.

Lady Bryan had proven willing to take advantage of this.

Chapuys was certain that it was for Anne's sake that the King was prepared to take such measures, as she would have been angry and dismayed to think that he still loved his elder daughter, especially when she had failed to give him the son she promised him. She had only been able to give him a daughter so she must have craved the reassurance that, even if their firstborn was only a daughter, the King still loved and honoured the child she had borne him above Mary.

Perhaps the King's willingness to place his eldest daughter in such a humiliating position had also stemmed from the disappointment he must surely have felt over the fact that the Concubine's child was a daughter. After all he had done in order to force the people of England to accept Anne as his wife and as his Queen, and the son he confidently expected as his legitimate heir, it would have been extremely humiliating for a man with King Henry's pride to be left with nothing more than a daughter for his trouble, and in his anger, he would wish to punish somebody for his disappointment. His newborn daughter and her mother were spared his anger and instead it settled on Princess Mary's head.

Anne had failed to bear a son, so Princess Mary would pay the price.

As well as that, the people still called for Queen Katherine and Princess Mary, pledging their support to the wronged ladies, and that was not a state of affairs that the King was prepared to tolerate.

Perhaps the King might even have believed, or might have been persuaded by his Concubine, that Princess Mary had brought about the birth of their daughter with her prayers, willing to pray to God that they were not blessed with the son they craved. Neither of them were stupid enough to believe that Mary _wanted_ to see them produce a son who might one day become his half-sister's rival as heir to the throne. She would not want them to produce any living child at all and, even if her father's bastards survived, she would want them to be born girls.

Perhaps her exile to Hatfield was a punishment for that.

But Chapuys had felt so certain that the King's persecution of Princess Mary would not continue. As the young girl had said, she believed that her father still loved and cared for her and few who could remember the way the King had doted on his daughter could believe that she was wrong. Queen Katherine had certainly believed that her husband would relent. Chapuys had hated being the man who was obliged to go to her and tell her that her beloved daughter was to be forced to endure the indignity of waiting on Anne Boleyn's little bastard but, although it was plain that Queen Katherine was both shocked and troubled by his news, she expressed confidence that the King would not be able to bear to continue to humiliate his beloved daughter thus, and that it would not be long before Mary was excused from her duties at Hatfield an summoned back to court, to live with her father once more and to enjoy his affection.

For Princess Mary's sake, and for the sake of Queen Katherine, who was far more concerned about her daughter's welfare than she was about her own position, Chapuys had prayed that she was right but that was not to be. The King seemed to be content to allow his once cherished daughter to live a servant's life, and never even sought her out when he came to visit little Elizabeth... though that had surely been Anne's doing.

Like Katherine, she must surely have believed that if the King was to see his daughter and speak with her, he would remember how dearly he had loved her and it would surely not be long before he relented and summoned Mary back to court, as his cherished daughter even if he could not bring himself to restore her to her place as princess, but while Katherine prayed for it, Anne must have known that it would do neither her nor her child any good if the King was reconciled with Princess Mary and she would have done whatever she could to keep that from happening, even if that meant that she had to make him promise not to speak with his own daughter.

And now, for Anne's sake, the few slight concessions that had been made towards Mary over the past few weeks were to be withdrawn.

Instead of returning to court in triumph, as she had once hoped, secure in the knowledge that she would have a kind stepmother who was eager to intercede on her behalf and to encourage the King to restore her as his legitimate heir, Mary would be returning in ignominy, forced to resume her duties as Elizabeth's attendant and to be seen to do so by the nobility of England.

Chapuys certainly couldn't blame Mary for her reaction to the news.

The thought made him feel ill and he was far from surprised that the news should have the same impact on her.

Elizabeth's physician would have accompanied the child to court when she last travelled there and, thankfully, Lady Bryan was also away from Hatfield. She was a kinswoman of Anne's and, by all accounts, she was a devoted governess to Elizabeth, taking great pride in being entrusted with the care of the so-called princess and taking umbrage at Mary's refusal to acknowledge the child as the King's legitimate heir. She would surely have had scant sympathy with Mary over her illness... and it was likely that the same would be true of the King.

Chapuys could remember when he went to court on a mission of mercy, to inform the King that Princess Mary had fallen ill and to pass on Queen Katherine's pleas that she might be allowed to nurse her beloved daughter. The King had refused to allow his wife and daughter to be together, sharply reminding Chapuys that illness could often be used for political purposes and indicating that he believed this to be the case with this situation.

If Mary's illness proved to be serious enough to prevent her from setting out for London until she recovered, the King might even believe that her illness was feigned in order to avoid her return to court and to Elizabeth's household, even though he certainly had cause to know how frail his daughter's health was.

If the King was angry, he would simply have to deal with it, Chapuys told himself.

If Mary was too ill to travel, then he certainly was not going to be the man who forced or even urged her to do so, not when it could place her health in fresh jeopardy.

The King had ordered that his daughter was to be brought back to court and, although the soldiers who had accompanied Chapuys to Hatfield ensured that he would never be able to smuggle the girl out of England, conveying her to Spain and to the protection of her cousin, they also would not dare to countermand his orders and forcibly convey Mary back to court, especially if a physician could be found to tend to Mary and to insist that she was not strong enough for that.

The King of England would simply have to wait.

* * *

**_1st June 1536_ **

Sixteen days ago, he had pronounced a sentence of death on his niece and his nephew.

Sixteen days ago, he believed that there was no alternative but to distance himself from Anne and George as quickly and as thoroughly as he possibly could, doing his level best to ensure that neither he nor his children would suffer because of their connection to the young woman that the King had once been willing to tear his country apart for but who had failed him and who therefore had to be set aside. Norfolk acted as the first among the peers sitting in judgement when Anne and George were tried, despite the fact that he knew that the charges were nonsensical, despite the fact that he knew that he was essentially committing murder in the King's name by sentencing innocent people to death for crimes they had not committed.

He had had no choice.

He had felt as though he had no choice.

The King had made up his mind to be rid of Anne and her trial for adultery was his chance to do so, providing him with a means of ridding himself of an unwanted wife without having to put himself through the difficulty and embarrassment of a trial on the validity of his second marriage.

What man would have dared to stand against him?

Norfolk certainly had not dared.

As Anne's uncle and as somebody who had benefited from her rise, his position was especially precarious. He simply could not afford for the King to entertain any hint of suspicion that he might sympathize with Anne in this situation. If he did, he could join her on the scaffold.

He had to hurry to express his sympathy with the King over Anne's supposed betrayal, to express abject regret that it should be a relative of his who had hurt the King in such a foul manner and, more importantly, to make it plain that he was at the King's disposal and would lend him whatever assistance he required to set this matter to rights. He had to seek out the Seymour men, addressing them kindly, even speaking to them as though he was speaking to his equals rather than to a family who were so far below him in rank that they should have counted it the greatest of honours if he deemed them worthy of his notice, let alone anything more.

He had no choice.

Every man and woman at court possessing even the most basic intelligence was aware of the fact that, once Anne was arrested, her conviction was a foregone conclusion, just as they were aware of the fact that it would not be long now before Jane Seymour became Queen and that, when she did, it was likely that she would champion Lady Mary's interests ahead of those of the little Princess Elizabeth, coaxing the King into legitimising the former and bastardising the latter.

Anybody who hoped to prosper was making haste to make it plain to the Seymour family that they wished to offer them their friendship and, much as it galled him, Norfolk followed suit.

Nobody could have predicted what would happen.

Anne would be beheaded or, if she was very, very fortunate, her life would be spared and she would be permitted to quietly slip away into exile in a nunnery, locked away behind convent walls where nobody would view her claims to be the King's wife with anything but ridicule, should she be foolish enough to try to challenge the validity of the next royal marriage. Her father would be dismissed from the court, her child would be bastardised and forgotten. Jane Seymour would become Queen, she would push for Mary's restoration and only those who were friends to the Seymours and to the Lady Mary would be shown any favour in years to come.

That was what Norfolk had expected.

That was what everybody had expected.

Who could have predicted what would happen?

Who could have predicted that the King would declare Anne's innocence, bringing her from the Tower to Whitehall, making it plain to everybody that she was Queen and would remain Queen?

Who could have predicted that, instead of becoming Queen, Jane Seymour would be dismissed from court in disgrace, like a kitchen wench banished for behaving as a slut?

Who could have predicted that, despite the odds being stacked so heavily against her and in favour of her rival, Anne would be the one to emerge triumphant?

Norfolk certainly had not.

If he had, he would have feigned illness, broken his own leg if that was what it took to ensure that he would not be called upon to act as one of Anne's judges, obliged to pronounce sentence. If he had been able to avoid showing that he sided against his niece and was prepared to see her disgraced and cast aside without lifting a finger or speaking a word in her defence, he would be in a better position now.

He had sent a message to Anne when she returned to court, expressing his relief over the fact that her innocence had been discovered, along with his regret for having been taken in by Cromwell's false accusations and requesting an audience with her, so that he could express his remorse in person but Anne was not willing to receive him. She had not even acknowledged the message.

Norfolk could understand that she was angry but that did not mean that it did not irritate him when his niece made it clear that there was nothing that he could say that she wanted to hear. She, along with her father, was shunning him, even though Anne knew perfectly well that, for any courtier, whether he was a private gentleman or one of the highest-ranking peers in the country, it was essential that he please the King and never give him the slightest cause to doubt his loyalty. Had he been the one condemned, he doubted that Anne would have bestirred herself to help him, particularly if she feared that she would worsen her position with the King by doing so.

Even the King had treated him coolly in the days following Anne's return to the palace. He must have known that there was only one reason why Norfolk would have been willing to find Anne guilty but he had always had a gift for ignoring unpleasant truths and seemed to have decided that he preferred to blame those who had assisted in the case against Anne rather than acknowledge that they had only ever thought to please him when they condemned her.

Norfolk was pointedly rebuked for not examining the case against Anne more closely before pronouncing her guilty and sentencing her, and for not recognizing Cromwell's allegations for the lies they were, and he suspected that the same was true of his fellow judges.

He had feared that he might find himself banished from court, stripped of his court offices and made an example of, as the lead judge in Anne's case. He could remember all too well the long years of disgrace following his father's execution, when the title of Duke of Norfolk was temporarily lost to the family and he had to content himself with that of Earl of Surrey until he was able to win his way into the young King's good graces and earn back the lost dukedom. He had feared that the same thing would happen again and, this time, there would be no guarantee of a reprieve.

His relief when the King singled him out for this mission was immeasurable.

Six months ago, he would not have hurried to put himself forward for this task and, while he would have accepted it with every indication of pleasure if the King commanded him to undertake it, he would have been more than a little put out that he, the first peer in England, should be pressed into service as a messenger and as escort to a foolish, obstinate girl. Now, however, it was proof that the King still viewed him as trustworthy, that his family connection with Anne was still able to ensure that much, at least, despite all that had happened.

Norfolk had not been present when the Imperial ambassador was so foolish as to broach the subject of the Lady Mary's restoration, despite the fact that he must surely have known how short on patience the King had been in recent weeks, but that did not mean that he did not know what had happened. He was sure that everybody in the palace knew what had happened within a matter of hours of the exchange taking place.

The King had dismissed the idea of restoring his daughter almost as soon as Chapuys had spoken his request, and in no uncertain terms. He was adamant that he was not going to allow the Emperor to push him into restoring his bastard daughter to the succession and, to make it clear to Chapuys, to the Lady Mary and to everybody else that he meant what he said, he commanded that Chapuys should go to Hatfield and bring the Lady Mary back to court immediately, so that she might resume her duties as one of Elizabeth's attendants.

Had Chapuys possessed an ounce of sense, he would have set out for Hatfield immediately and returned with the Lady Mary in tow as fast as his horses could carry them. Had he brought the young girl back and counselled her to obey her father and to submit to his will, then perhaps the King might have softened towards his daughter.

Instead, Chapuys had sent a message from Hatfield, explaining to the King that Lady Mary had suddenly taken ill and could not travel, and he had not given any indication of when they might be expected to arrive at Whitehall, undoubtedly hoping that a message would be sent back to let him know that Lady Mary might remain where she was if she was unwell.

When Norfolk heard of this, he predicted that the King would not react well to the message and he was soon proven right.

The King had summoned him to his Privy Chamber, handing him a written order with his own seal, instructing him to travel to Hatfield straight away and to return with the Lady Mary, accepting no excuses from either the girl or from the ambassador. If Chapuys wished to remain at Hatfield for a few days, the King was willing to allow him to remain there for a short time and to place the manor and its staff at his disposal but, whatever about Chapuys, Mary was to return at once and he could accept no excuses for a failure to do so. He expected her back at court by nightfall.

"...even if you have to have her carried out of there and put into the carriage, kicking and screaming." The King had finished grimly.

But for his long experience of court life, the long years during which he had learned to conceal his emotions as skilfully as a card player, Norfolk would have allowed his surprise at the King's words to show. It was not the first time that the King had expressed impatience with his elder daughter, far from it, but he had never so much as hinted that he would be prepared to condone violence or rough treatment towards her before. Before, it was understood that, even if the Lady Mary was now a bastard, stripped of the royal titles she had once enjoyed and disbarred from the line of succession, she was still the King's acknowledged daughter and the royal blood that flowed through her veins demanded that she be treated with respect.

Now, however, things were different and, if the Lady Mary was sensible, she would know better than to continue to flout her father's wishes... but, as the last few years had proven, Lady Mary could not always be relied upon to behave in a sensible fashion. She could make things much easier and much more pleasant for herself by yielding but she had always refused to do so.

Norfolk was not a man known for his pity and he had none to waste on the girl.

If she could not behave sensibly, then she did not deserve his pity, or anybody else's.

He had been charged with fetching the Lady Mary from Hatfield and conducting her to court and that was what he would do, whether she liked it or not, and he would not be such a fool as to allow himself to be moved by protestations of illness or demands that she be addressed as a Princess. He would obey the King's commands, to the letter... and hopefully, by doing so, by being the man who brought the rebellious Lady Mary back to court, where she would be obliged to defer to Princess Elizabeth, he would be able to convince his niece that he still supported her cause.

He had not sent a message to Anne, suspecting that she would not receive it if he did, but before he left the court to journey to Hatfield, he penned a short note to her father, informing him of his mission and expressing a hope that the Lady Mary would soon be brought to heel, the better to secure little Elizabeth's position.

When he reached Hatfield, he dismounted immediately, not even waiting for the men in his train to follow suit before he strode towards the main door and banged on it. As soon as it was open, he entered, pushing his way past the servant who opened it and ignoring the man's bleated offers to fetch Ambassador Chapuys or to inform the Lady Mary of his arrival.

He certainly had no intention of giving the Lady Mary time to apply powder to her face to make herself look pale and wan, or any such nonsense designed to make him believe that she truly was ill and not merely feigning it in order to postpone her inevitable return to court.

He curtly demanded the servant to bring him to the Lady Mary's room immediately and would not allow the man to delay him in any way.

There was an squeal of outrage from the maid-in-waiting sitting by Mary's bedside when he opened the door to her chamber but he ignored her attempts to keep him from entering.

"Lady Mary is not ready to receive visitors, my lord, she has been unwell..."

"That is not my concern." Norfolk said coldly, looking at the young girl in the bed. She was wide awake and sitting up, a lacy shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Her eyes were cold as she looked at him, clearly furious over his intrusion into her chamber. He did not bow to her, or even incline his head in a gesture of respect. "His Majesty the King has ordered me to conduct you to the palace at once, Lady Mary." He told her gruffly, handing her the sealed order before she could protest that she would not believe that this was her father's order until he presented her with proof of that. "You will get dressed and have your things packed. We leave in an hour. No later."

"I am not well enough to travel." Mary told him icily, scowling. She might have expected that they would send one of Anne's relatives to torment her!

Norfolk shrugged, as though her state of health was a matter of complete indifference to him. "His Majesty has commanded me to see to it that you are brought back to court at once, Lady Mary, and I intend to obey his orders." He told her firmly. He heard the sound of rapid footsteps in the corridor and glanced up to see Chapuys enter the room, an outraged expression on his face.

Had the man had the authority to do so, Norfolk was certain that he would have liked to order that servants throw him out of Hatfield as punishment for his daring to treat the Lady Mary with anything less than the deference that her pretended rank as princess demanded. However, Chapuys did not have that authority so all he could do was stand there, protesting at the idea of Norfolk brazenly entering the girl's chamber as he had and dropping hints that the Emperor would hear of this outrage and be most displeased.

It would be a cold day in Hell before Norfolk fretted over a foreigner's opinion of him!

When he saw that Norfolk was completely unmoved by his protests, Chapuys tried a more reasonable tactic. "As you can see, my Lord Norfolk, the Lady Mary's Grace is unwell." He pointed out, refraining from adding that it was the thought of having to return to court that had made her so ill, knowing that Norfolk was far from likely to be sympathetic about that. "Surely the journey could be postponed for a few days, to allow Lady Mary to gather her strength, and then she will accompany you. I am sure that if you sent a message to the King, he will understand."

It was not exactly surprising that the King might have doubts when Chapuys, whom he knew to be sympathetic towards his daughter, was the one pleading illness on her behalf, but if the Duke of Norfolk, the harlot's own uncle, was prepared to send word to the King assuring him that Mary was genuinely unwell, he would surely not insist on her journeying to court before she was recovered.

"The King has commanded that I bring Lady Mary back to court at once." Norfolk repeated slowly, as though he considered them to be dense. "We will be departing in an hour's time. If the Lady Mary is wise, she will dress and have her things packed. If not, it makes no difference to me. We will leave without her things... and if she will not come without a fuss, I will order one of my men to carry her down to the carriage." He finished, knowing that the threat would anger them.

He was right.

Mary glared at him, furious with him for daring to speak to her, the Princess of Wales, with such disrespect. "Who are you to dare to speak to me in such a fashion, my lord?" She demanded indignantly, her tone icy as she spoke. She straightened in her bed, fixing him with a cold gaze, as though to remind him that he was speaking to a King's daughter.

Norfolk was untroubled by her reaction. A slight smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he sketched a mocking bow. "I am the King's servant, Lady Mary... and the Queen's."

* * *

George had not wanted to visit Jane.

After his wife was arrested, his father-in-law, Lord Morley, wrote a supplicating letter to him, offering his deepest apologies for the way Jane had behaved towards him and vowing that if there was anything he could do to make amends with George over the way his daughter had behaved, it would be his honour and his pleasure to do so but he also added a plea that George find it in his heart to show some mercy towards Jane and to ask that she be treated leniently.

Lord Morley stressed that he was in no way condoning Jane's actions but he added that she was his only living child and, as such, he could not bear to think that she would be executed for the part she had played in the accusations made against George and his sister. Morley even went so far as to pledge that, if George could do this for him, he would name him heir to his entire estate when he died, leaving him every penny and every acre of land.

It was not the promise of this inheritance that prompted George to respond that he would try, or that led to him paying a visit to the Tower to see how his wife was being housed and treated. He had other motives and, in a way, he was very glad to be able to have Jane as a smokescreen, to cover his true intentions.

If he was to make the journey from Whitehall to the Tower to pay a visit to Mark, who was only a mere musician and who should mean nothing to a courtier of George's station, it would prompt questions. However, if he was coming to pay a visit to Jane, what harm was there in him asking to see the man who was arrested with him and who was still residing within the walls of the Tower as he recuperated from the injuries inflicted on him?

It was plain from Master Kingston's demeanour as he conducted him through the Tower's to Jane's cell so that he might look in on her and see how she was faring that he considered it very good of George to be prepared to take an interest in his wife's welfare after what she had done.

George did not disillusion him. He listened, with every indication of interest and concern, while Master Kingston described how Jane was distracted and in great distress since her arrest, speaking wildly and having long bouts of laughter, often refusing food. Kingston was not sure whether she might be feigning madness, as the insane could not be executed under the law, or whether her symptoms were genuine but, either way, George did not care.

He had more important things to think about.

Once Kingston had finished his account, promising to keep him appraised about Jane's condition, George turned the conversation to the issue of real importance.

"How is Master Smeaton, Master Kingston?" He asked in a carefully casual tone, as though the thought had just struck him in passing. "Is he recovering from his injuries?" Nobody could think that there was anything amiss about him asking after the health of one of his fellow accused, given that he would know of the torture inflicted on Mark.

"He is recovering well, my lord, and the physicians are hopeful that he will regain much of his former strength and that it will not be much longer now before he is well enough to leave... though they are in agreement that the damage to his hands was too extensive to allow him to ever play music again." Kingston's eyes softened momentarily in sympathy for the young man who had lost the tools of his livelihood. The King had indicated that he would supply Smeaton with a pension, now that he was no longer able to earn a living with his music, but Kingston suspected that this had been scant comfort to the man who, by all accounts, was the most skilled musician at court.

"I see." George waited impatiently for Kingston to take the hint, having no intention of leaving until he was able to see Mark but, at the same time, not wanting to be the one to ask about the possibility of a visit. When he did not say anything else, Kingston seemed to realize that he was expected to say something.

"Did you wish to visit Master Smeaton, my lord?" He asked tentatively, not wanting to cause offence by making it sound as though he expected the other man to pay a visit if he did not wish to do so.

"Yes, Master Kingston." George agreed readily, willingly following Kingston out into the courtyard and across towards the Constable's House, where Mark had lodged since the day the rest of them were released from captivity.

Lady Kingston rose when he was conducted into the house, curtseying deeply and welcoming him to her home but George ignored her offers of refreshment, asking only to be told where Mark was sleeping and, once he was told, he hastened to the room as fast as he could move without actually running there, eager to see his friend and lover.

"My lord." Mark's voice was quiet when he greeted George, his words coming slowly at first, as though speaking them cost him a great effort. Most of the bruising on his face was gone but there were still a couple of gashes that were slowly knitting together, and that were so deep that it looked as though they would leave permanent scars. Both of his hands were heavily bandaged, with only the tips of his fingers visible. "How is the Queen?" He asked hoarsely.

"She's well." George responded, taken aback that Mark should ask about Anne first rather than him... but, then again, if one of the Kingstons was eavesdropping, perhaps it would seem more courteous if Mark asked after the health of the Queen first. "Back at court, and settled into her apartment again and all that." He responded vaguely; he had seen little of Anne since their return and knew very little about what she was up to, aside from what he heard through gossip. He smiled wryly. "She's leading the King a merry dance, by all accounts." He added good-humouredly, thinking of what he had heard about the way that Anne was calmly rebuffing her husband's attempted overtures, making it plain to him that she would not soon forgive him for what he had done. "He can barely get two words out of her – and that's on a good day!"

Mark chuckled slightly at this, though this set off a wave of coughing. "Good for her." He pronounced, as soon as he had caught his breath and could speak again. "Tell her that she shouldn't be too quick to let him off the hook."

"Tell her yourself." George said unthinkingly. "Once you're back at court, I mean. She'll receive you, and she'll have a couple of her ladies there as witnesses." He added, in case Mark might be reluctant to take the risk of being alone in a room with Anne again. After what had happened, no sensible man in Mark's position would want to take any chances that history might repeat itself.

"I won't be returning to court, my lord." Mark said quietly but very firmly, his tone brooking no argument.

"Why?"

For answer, Mark lifted his bandaged hands. "What use am I as a musician with these?" He asked bitterly, hot tears stinging the back of his eyelids at the thought that he would never be able to make music as he had before, not for work and not for pleasure either. "There's no place for me there anymore, you know that."

"There can be." George protested, unwilling to accept that Mark would not be returning to court. "You can have a position in my household – we could call you my valet." He added with a grin, thinking that that might be a perfect cover for them; there was nothing unusual about a lord's valet sleeping in his room, after all, even if other lords did not have the same intentions towards their valets that he did towards Mark.

"No we couldn't." Mark contradicted him; although part of him would have liked to be able to stay with George, the idea of returning to the court as a cripple was a painful one, and he also knew that if he returned, they risked discovery. "It's not safe for us to be together, not now."

"Why not?" George was dismayed by his words. "It's not like anybody would ever suspect that we..."

"The King would know."

"How would the King know?" George was aware of his reputation as a man who took great pleasure in the company of ladies – he had found it useful to continue to cultivate that reputation by openly flirting with the ladies of the court, even after he and Mark commenced their relationship – and he knew that the King was aware of that reputation. Why would the King ever suspect that his brother-in-law was a lover of men? He saw the answer to his question in Mark's eyes. "You told him." He stated flatly, horrified. "Why would you do that?"

"He asked me about the Queen, he wanted to know whether or not I was her lover. I had to tell him that I wasn't..."

"But you didn't have to tell him the truth!" George protested angrily, feeling terror surge through him like icy water. If the King knew about him and Mark, then what was to stop him bringing them to trial for their relationship? He might have escaped death after being accused of incest with Anne, only to be executed for lying with Mark. Not even his sister would be able to save him if the King decided to bring him up on charges for it.

"I could hardly think clearly when he spoke to me," Mark pointed out coldly, irritated by George's reaction. As the son of an earl, as a baron in his own right, George was exempt from torture and spared the worst of the privations endured by most of the prisoners in the Tower. How could he understand what it was like for a commoner who found himself imprisoned, tortured by every means at the disposal of his captors until he could be induced to make a confession that would damn his patroness, a confession that he had hated himself for making since they first managed to force the words from him? He was fortunate that he had been able to voice a coherent word when the King questioned him about Anne, let alone anything else. "And, in any case, I would have needed to tell him _something_ if I wanted him to believe that the Queen was innocent."

He knew that much instinctively; the King would not have been prepared to blindly accept his word for it when he declared that he had never been Anne's lover and that their interactions had always been blameless, not unless he could give him something more, something that would convince him that he spoke the truth, particularly when Mark knew that the King had a vested interest in Anne being convicted and executed. Even if the King wanted to dismiss his claims of innocence, he would never believe that a man would defend himself against the charge of committing adultery with the Queen by admitting to being the lover of a man. Both crimes carried a sentence of death but the latter was more of a disgrace by far.

It would also have meant that the King would have an explanation for why Lady Rochford, whom Mark had been told had been placed under arrest and was waiting to be charged and tried for her part in this, might have lied about her husband and his sister.

"The King won't charge us for it, George," he added gently, seeing the expression on George's face and knowing that he was worried, but he was also sure that the King would never stir up public feeling against him after what had happened with Anne by bringing her brother to trial on a separate offence. He would know that they would assume that he was seeking to avenge himself on the Boleyns for the fact that he was now tied to Anne once more by fabricating a charge against the son and heir of the family. "You're safe... as long as we end it. We can't carry on as we have, under the King's nose and at his own court. He wouldn't let us get away with _that_." If they weren't executed for it, there was a very real risk that the King would arrange for one or both of them to be murdered rather than allowing a relationship he would undoubtedly deem to be sinful to continue under his roof.

"We don't have to stay at court; I wasn't planning on staying there much longer anyway." George attempted to convince him. He had already been considering the idea of leaving the court, at least for a while, and if that was what it took to keep Mark with him, he would be content to never again set foot in Whitehall. "Grimstone was restored to me – and you should have seen Tom Seymour's face when the King made him come to me and give me the deed to it. We can go there. It's a big place, in the countryside and nobody will bother us there."

"No, my lord." Mark shook his head slowly, refusing to give in to the temptation to go along with George's suggestion, as appealing as the idea of hiding away in the country with him was. "We can't. You're the Queen's brother, you need to stay at court with her."

"Anne can take care of herself."

"She's going to need friends, George, especially after what happened." Mark pointed out quietly. "You know that there aren't many people at court that she can count on. She needs you." He coughed, pain shooting through his chest as his healing ribs protested against the movement.

"And I need you." George said, trying to convince the other man even though, deep down, he knew that he would not be able to sway Mark if he had made up his mind. "I need you to stay with me. Please!" tears of mingled grief and frustration pricked the back of his eyes but he did not allow them to flow. Belatedly, he remembered the Kingstons and the possibility that they might be listening to the exchange, hearing things that they should not but, when he moved to open the door of Mark's room and look out into the corridor, there was no sign of anybody there.

Mark smiled slightly. "You'll be fine." He said. His tone was gentle but, at the same time, firm, brooking no argument. "You'll stay at court and you'll be honoured by the King as his brother-in-law and you'll find somebody else." He decided against mentioning that, as his marriage to Jane was over, whether she was executed or whether their union was annulled, it would not be much longer before the Earl of Wiltshire decided to try to find his son a new wife. George didn't need to hear that, not now. "You'll be fine." He repeated, needing to believe that this was true.

"But..." George wanted to protest, he wanted to insist that he would _not_ be fine, not as long as Mark was leaving, that he was willing to leave court and take his chances by continuing with their relationship and that he did not want the benefits of being the King's brother-in-law but Mark's next words caused the words to die on his tongue, as the other man spoke the two words that George least wanted to hear.

"Goodbye, George."

* * *

"Look at me, Mama!" Elizabeth demanded, twirling around the room and holding out the skirts of her new gown, beaming admiringly at the pale green silk of her skirt and looking up at her mother and at her grandfather to make sure that they too were admiring her new dress as they ought to. "Isn't it pretty, Grandpapa?"

"It's beautiful, my precious." Boleyn assured her, bending down to sweep Elizabeth into his arms and smiling slightly at the memory of a time when he had held Anne in the same way, when his daughter was a little girl. "Fit for my lovely little princess."

Elizabeth shared some features with her father, and she inherited her golden hair from her paternal grandmother, Elizabeth of York – something that was very fortunate, as it made it more difficult for people to slander her and her mother by insisting that she was another man's child – but Boleyn thought that she was so like Anne at that age that it was uncanny. She even shared her mother's love for beautiful gowns and finery, he thought with an indulgent smile, remembering a tiny dark haired girl who had delighted in dressing up and who could be trusted, even when she was a toddler of only two or three, to keep her gowns neat and clean, a trait her siblings had not shared.

"Thank you, Grandpapa." Elizabeth accepted his compliment solemnly, kissing him on the cheek in thanks before wriggling a little, to signal that she wanted to be put down so that she could show her mother her dress. Her grandfather set her on her feet and she hurried to her mother's side, curtseying as gracefully as she could, though her curtsey was somewhat wobblier than Lady Bryan's. "And thank you for my new dress, Mama."

"You're welcome, sweetheart." Anne knelt down in front of Elizabeth, kissing her cheek and marvelling at how grown-up her daughter looked in her new gowns, like a miniature adult. She felt sad to be confronted with the evidence of how quickly her little baby was growing up but, at the same time, she was filled with pride to see Elizabeth growing into such a beautiful princess, a princess that any King could be proud to have as his daughter. She was beautiful and she was clever and she was affectionate.

Anne didn't know what she had done to be rewarded with such a remarkable child but she would never cease to be thankful that she had her daughter, and she would never take the time she had with her for granted. She had almost run out of it before.

Elizabeth giggled, pleased by their attention and by their compliments. She was very glad that she was still at court, with her Mama, instead of being sent back to Hatfield. Mama had explained to her that she would be staying at court much longer this time than she usually did, so long that messengers were to be sent to Hatfield to bring her favourite toys to court but, instead of her clothes being sent for, her Mama was ordering new ones to be made for her, the loveliest and finest that Elizabeth had ever had. She had been measured by the dressmakers just after Mama came back and now she was getting lots of new gowns, at least one or two a day.

Anne leaned closer to her daughter's ear, whispering something to her, something that caused Elizabeth's eyes to light up and the toddler to hurry over to the table, where a box awaited her attention. Nan Saville helped her open it and Elizabeth let out a small cry of delight when she saw it's contents, lifting out a new cap for herself, lavishly embroidered and trimmed with seed pearls, along with another gown, though it was one that was far too small for her. It was a miniature of the gown she was wearing now, and just the right size for her favourite doll.

"I think she likes it." Boleyn said softly, smiling to see his granddaughter fumbling with the buttons fastening her doll's gown and, when her tiny fingers could not undo them fast enough, accepting Nan's offer of assistance and watching while her mother's lady-in-waiting redressed her doll in her new gown. Ordinarily, he would not think it wise or proper to be too indulgent with a child, and he had been quite a strict parent to his own three, but he could see why Anne could not resist the urge to indulge her beloved child, especially under the circumstances.

"I wanted her to have something to think about other than what happened." Anne explained softly, taking advantage of the fact that Elizabeth was happily distracted so that she could speak with her father. She kept Elizabeth by her side for most of the toddler's waking hours but there were certain things that she did not want to speak of around little ears, especially when she knew how distressed Elizabeth was to see her parents at odds.

It wasn't fair to put a child in the middle but, at the same time, it was extremely difficult for Anne to keep up a pretence that all was well.

"I understand." Boleyn said gently, patting his daughter's shoulder awkwardly and wishing that he had a better idea what he could say that would help her. Anne could distract her daughter with new clothes and toys but his daughter would not be distracted from her pain so easily and he hated feeling helpless around her, not knowing what to say or do. He smiled, hitting on a thought that he was sure would be a cheering one for Anne. "The Lady Mary should be returning from court today, as Elizabeth's servant." He reminded her, chuckling slightly at the memory of Norfolk's message. "Your uncle has been sent to fetch the girl back from Hatfield, and I wish him joy of his errand – the Lady Mary is such a stubborn girl that he won't have an easy time of it with her."

"No." Anne agreed, well-acquainted with Mary's stubbornness.

"She tried to get out of coming back to court, you know." Boleyn continued. "That toad Chapuys sent back a message that she was ill as soon as he arrived, and wouldn't bring her to court, as the King had ordered. Perhaps he thought that they could avoid it if they delayed long enough."

"Maybe," Anne agreed, thinking that it sounded plausible. "Or she might really be ill." Although she could easily imagine that Mary might feign illness, especially if the alternative was coming back to court and waiting on Elizabeth, Anne couldn't dismiss the possibility that the girl might be truly ill. She could remember from her brief period of service in Katherine's household that the other woman had always been greatly concerned about her little daughter's health. She might not have shown her fears openly but her ladies-in-waiting were aware of how frightened she was when Mary became ill, afraid that a trifling childhood ailment might become something more serious for her delicate daughter.

"Well or ill, she's coming back." Boleyn said. "Your uncle's message said that the King has ordered that Lady Mary will be brought back to court, whether she likes it or not, regardless of what excuse she gives. He can carry her out of there if he has to."

"Poor girl." Anne said quietly.

Boleyn raised an eyebrow, surprised that Anne would react like that. "I thought that you'd be pleased." He said. "This means that the King wants to make it clear that Elizabeth is the Princess and that Mary is a bastard. If he brings the girl to court and makes her act as a servant to Elizabeth, he'll make it plain to everybody at court and to the Emperor and to everybody else where the two of them stand; Elizabeth is his heir and Mary is nothing."

"I know." Anne replied. She was not insensible to the fact that Henry's decision to call his elder daughter to court and to make it plain that Elizabeth was the princess and not Mary would help to secure her little daughter's position and she was glad to know that Henry wanted to make sure that their child's place was as safe as he could make it but that didn't mean that she was happy about the fact that it had to be at Mary's expense that this was done. Even if it was unavoidable that Mary's humble position would have to be highlighted, it didn't make the idea any more palatable. "But, under other circumstances, Elizabeth could have wound up in the same position as the Lady Mary." She pointed out, shuddering inwardly at the thought of her beloved daughter being bastardised and humiliated for the sake of her future half-siblings by Jane.

Henry probably hoped to reassure her by providing her with proof that he was going to honour Elizabeth as a princess and that she did not need to worry that he would set their child aside in favour of Mary but the last thing Anne wanted was a fresh reminder of how cruelly he might have treated little Elizabeth, had things been different.

"Lady Mary?" Elizabeth piped up, returning with her doll clutched in her arms, waiting to show her Mama and her Grandpapa how fine the doll looked in the new gown.

Anne smiled at her. "Yes, sweetheart, your Papa sent for the Lady Mary, so that she can come to court and help to take care of you."

"Really?" Elizabeth was surprised; the Lady Mary was never allowed to come to court, like some of her other ladies did when they travelled with her so that they could wait on her. She always thought that it was because the Lady Mary was the most disobedient of her ladies, never doing what Lady Bryan told her to do, that she was always left behind, not allowed the fun of the trip to court. She smiled at the thought of having Lady Mary at court. "Lady Mary is nice." She told her Mama, hoping that she'd make sure that Lady Mary was permitted to stay, even if she did something that would make Lady Bryan feel cross with her.

"Is she, darling?" Anne asked, surprised. She would have expected that Mary would want to keep her distance from her little sister as much as possible, resenting Elizabeth for the fact that she held the position of Princess of England, a position that Mary had once enjoyed and it was a pleasant surprise to find out that Mary was kind to her.

"Yes, Mama." Elizabeth confirmed with a solemn nod. "She plays nice games and she reads me stories and she sings songs. I like her."

Anne smiled, picking Elizabeth up and holding her close. "I'm pleased, sweetheart." Elizabeth was a sweet child, charming and lovable and it was good to know that even the Lady Mary was not proof against her charms, good to know that she need not fear that Mary would be unkind to Elizabeth when they were alone, mistreating her precious daughter because of what happened. Elizabeth shouldn't have to pay the price for what had happened between her mother and Mary's.

"When will Lady Mary be arriving?" Elizabeth asked.

"Soon, my dear." Boleyn answered before Anne could, smiling at his granddaughter. "Probably before it's time for you to go to bed."

Elizabeth beamed, motioning for her mother to put her down. "I can show her my new clothes!" She announced happily, running over to the box on the table, so that she could try on her new cap, eagerly anticipating the moment when she would be able to show Mary how pretty she looked.

"I'm sure that she'll think that you look very pretty in them." Anne said, smiling to hide her discomfort at the thought that Mary might be put out if she saw how lavishly provided for little Elizabeth was, especially when Henry had been far from generous when it came to his elder daughter's allowance during her time at Hatfield.

Boleyn waited until Elizabeth was happily occupied with trying on her new cap before he caught his daughter by the arm, gently guiding her towards the fireplace. "Are you alright, Anne?" He asked gently, seeing that she was troubled, despite her attempts to conceal that with a smile, and wondering whether she might be more worried about the fact that Mary was to be brought back to court. He couldn't imagine that the girl would ever have the chance to do anything to harm little Elizabeth, given that Lady Bryan was a vigilant guardian who would diligently protect her little charge, but perhaps Anne was afraid that, while she was at court, the Lady Mary might seek to amass support for herself in the hopes that, should anything happen to the King, she would be able to usurp the throne ahead of Elizabeth. "I'm sure that the King intends to ensure that the Lady Mary takes the Oath of Succession and admits to being the bastard she is."

Anne nodded absently, thinking that her father was right that Henry would want to pressure Mary into taking the Oath. He would have to induce the girl to acknowledge that she was illegitimate, and to do so publicly, if he hoped to secure Elizabeth's place, which would be in jeopardy as long as her half-sister was laying claim to her title.

Boleyn frowned, worried by her lack of response. He could remember how troubled she was in the weeks leading up to her arrest, and he wasn't proud when he remembered how he had reacted when he saw how fearful she was, ordering her to befriend the Imperial ambassador and to deliberately insult the French in the presence of her ambassador – something that could well have made matters worse for Anne, as her words would have damaged any chance there was that the French would try to help her cause by agreeing to the betrothal of Elizabeth and the Duke of Angouleme. He was worried too, afraid that he would lose his privileged position in the King's inner circle and the rewards that went with it. Anne had had more to lose, she knew it and she feared it but he had done little to help or protect her.

He should have been able to comfort her, even if he couldn't guarantee her position as Queen, but he had not even tried to do so, deeming it a waste of time to coddle her.

"How are things between you and the King?" He asked, knowing, like everybody else, that Anne had spoken with the King a couple of days ago. However, Anne had said nothing about their exchange, not to him and not to anybody else, to the best of his knowledge. The King had appeared to be angry about it but, at the same time, he had decided to order his illegitimate daughter back to court and had publicly dismissed the idea of her restoration.

Boleyn was very curious about what Anne could have said to prompt him to do this but, if he hoped that she would enlighten him, she was disappointed.

She merely shrugged a second time, clearly unwilling to speak and, when little Elizabeth skipped over to her to show off her new cap, she knelt down in front of her little daughter, focusing her attention on Elizabeth instead of on his question. Even when the little girl was put to bed for her nap, Boleyn knew better than to expect that his daughter would be more open than she was now.

Anne might be more eager for his company these days, trusting him and wanting to be around him, but she would not be open with him about how she felt about what had happened.

She wouldn't confide in him, not about this.

He wasn't the one she needed.

* * *

"I cannot believe that the King is willing to do this." Catherine Brandon, the Duchess of Suffolk, muttered through gritted teeth. She would much rather be back at home but the King had asked her husband to invite her to come to court, along with her stepson, the King's nephew, and an invitation from the King could not be refused, particularly when her husband needed to be careful to ensure that he did not give any cause for offence, after what had happened with Anne. "To his own daughter."

Brandon laid a gentle hand on her shoulder to calm her, afraid that her words would be overheard and carried to Henry. "I know." He said quietly.

Had he dared, he would have remonstrated with Henry, pleading with him not to treat Mary as he intended to, or at least to give himself some time to reconsider his intentions, in the hopes that he would change his mind if he had a chance to reflect on the full implications of his plan and what it would do to Mary's spirits, but he had not said a word.

Henry had taken him by surprise when he made his announcement that Mary was to be called back to court to wait on Elizabeth, and when he declared that he would not be willing to consider the idea of restoring her to the succession, even when he was being offered an alliance with the Emperor in exchange for doing so. Brandon was so sure that, with Anne being so cold towards Henry after what had happened, his friend would be happy to put her in her place by making their child yield to his elder daughter. He had hoped that Henry loved Mary enough to want to do right by her, especially when he could tell himself that he was yielding for political purposes and not because he thought he was wrong to declare her a bastard in the first place, and he was dismayed to see his willingness to humiliate the poor girl.

With the way Anne was behaving, he wouldn't have thought that Henry would go out of his way to placate her and to reassure her that their daughter's position was safe but he was wrong.

He couldn't imagine what it must be like for Mary who, a few weeks ago, was being courted by some of the nobles of the court, who expected her restoration and who hoped to secure her friendship by offering their support, to have to return to Whitehall in ignominy rather than in triumph, to know that her father was willing to use her in order to make amends with Anne.

It was wrong but Henry was the King and his will was law.

There was nothing that Brandon, or anybody else, could do to stop him doing as he wished.

Lord Edward Brandon stood between his parents, looking around the Great Hall at the richly clad lords and ladies, savouring the rare opportunity to visit the royal court. He had hoped that he would be able to persuade his father to let him attend the execution when Queen Anne was beheaded but, since she was not going to be killed after all, coming to court was the next best thing, especially when it meant that he would be able to be present when his cousin, Lady Mary, the King's natural daughter, returned.

He had seen his cousin only once before, when he was a little boy of three and she attended his father's wedding to his stepmother, but he had grown a great deal since then and he was sure that she had too, even if she had not grown as much as he had. He had been little more than a baby when he last saw her but now he was eight, almost a grown man and he was looking forward to the surprise on her face when she saw how he had changed.

When he and Catherine arrived at court and Father let them know that the Lady Mary would be returning and that Edward would be able to meet her, Catherine had spent a great deal of time with Edward, coaching him until his bow was perfect, as graceful as that of any lord of the court.

She had made it plain that, although the Lady Mary was illegitimate, she expected Edward to honour her. She was his cousin and she was the King's daughter and she was a good, gracious girl who deserved to be treated with respect and honour for all of those things. Catherine told him that, even if he saw that other people were treating Mary disrespectfully, she expected him to be polite to her, and to treat her as the King's daughter should be treated – "no differently than you would treat the Princess Elizabeth," she had told him.

If she heard him use the words 'bastard' or 'illegitimate' in reference to his cousin, whether he spoke them in Mary's earshot or not, she would be very cross with him.

His father had seconded the admonition and Edward promised to do as he was told, practicing his bow so that he would be ready when he was presented to his cousin.

He couldn't see the King. His uncle had come out to greet him when he arrived this morning, ruffling his hair and telling him that he was growing into a fine boy, and asking about how he was faring with his lessons and with his riding and shooting, but he was not here now to greet his daughter, having slipped away when a message came from the sentries that the Lady Mary's carriage had been sighted. Edward thought that this was very strange, wondering why his uncle would come to greet his nephew but not his daughter, but he hadn't asked, though the sombre expressions on his parents' faces when the King excused himself had not escaped his notice.

He would have to ask them about it later.

The Queen wasn't here either.

Edward came to court only on very few occasions, so he had not seen much of the Queen. He wasn't as fond of her as he was of his uncle but she was still kind to him when he saw her, giving him treats and asking him about his lessons. He would have thought that, even if the King was busy and could not stay to greet his daughter, the Queen would be there. He knew that the Lady Mary wasn't the Queen's daughter, only her stepdaughter, but Catherine wasn't his mother by blood and she had always been very nice to him and cared for him as if he was truly hers.

"Where is the Queen?" He regretted the question as soon as it was spoken, seeing the dark looks that crossed his parents' faces at the mention of Queen Anne.

"She's not here, Edward." Brandon responded shortly, not wanting to speak of Anne.

"I am certain that Her Majesty the Queen has better things with which to occupy her time than to attend today to greet a disobedient bastard." A cool voice spoke up behind them.

Edward was rather put out that, while he was sternly warned against using the word 'bastard', adults like the man who had spoken were permitted to use the term without anybody scolding them for it. Catherine laid her hand on his shoulder, drawing him closer to her and away from the man, at whom his father was glaring.

"My Lord Wiltshire." Brandon greeted the other man through gritted teeth, clenching his fist and longing to be able to drive it through Boleyn's teeth, revolted by the way the man dared to speak of Mary, as though he considered that it would be beneath his upstart daughter to offer a polite greeting and to behave civilly towards a young girl born a princess.

"Your Grace." Boleyn sketched a slight bow, his posture making it plain that the gesture was one of mockery rather than one of respect. He was pleased to see the way Brandon stiffened at his words, pleased to see that the Duke of Suffolk, the King's closest friend, did not dare to correct the Queen's father, that Brandon knew that the tide was, once more, turning in favour of the Boleyns. He nodded to Catherine next. "A pleasure, as always, Lady Suffolk." He greeted her before giving Edward a cold smile that did not reach his eyes. "And young Lord Edward – how nice to have all of your family present at court."

"We are here to pay our respects to the Lady Mary's Grace." Catherine told him, a scowl creasing her brow, despite her attempt not to show Boleyn that she was affected by his words.

She didn't want to give him the satisfaction of seeing it.

"Before she resumes her service as maid to Her Highness the Princess Elizabeth." Boleyn remarked, savouring the words. It was a great relief to know that the King was making it plain that it was Elizabeth he viewed as his legitimate daughter and his lawful heiress, ahead of Mary, and the fact that it irked the Brandons to know this made it more pleasant.

After the way Brandon had dared to make such foul allegations against Anne, Boleyn would have been happy to see the wretched man brought to the scaffold and executed as a traitor alongside Cromwell but, alas, it seemed that the King's friendship with Brandon would protect him. However, he certainly would not be sorry to see Brandon's influence diminished, or to see the man banished from the court. At the rate things were going, if Anne voiced a desire to see the Brandons banished from the court, bundled back to the country where they could do no more damage, the King might agree in the hopes of pleasing her.

It was certainly an idea worthy of consideration.

Outside the huge double doors leading into the Great Hall, somebody banged a gavel on the floor, catching the attention of those within and causing a hush to settle on the room, as all within knew who it was likely to be.

"His Grace the Duke of Norfolk, His Excellency the Imperial ambassador and the Lady Mary."

Boleyn suppressed a smile, knowing that the order to announce the group thus would have come from the King, perhaps relayed through his secretary, and knowing what it signified. The King had ordered that his daughter should be the last of the three announced in order to make it plain to her and to everybody else that, to his eyes, she ranked behind them, despite her royal blood.

"The bastard has arrived." He remarked in a clear, carrying voice, inclining his head slightly in Brandon's direction before taking a few steps away, far enough away to distance himself from the group but close enough to be able to hear anything they said.

"What I wouldn't give to..." Brandon's hand slipped to the hilt of his dagger but, quick as lightning, his wife's hand rested on his, staying his movements.

Mary was pale when she walked into the room and her knees felt wobbly but, despite how shaky she was feeling, she had declined Chapuys' offer to escort her into the room. It would have been a comfort for her to feel his supportive arm beneath hers as she walked into a hall filled with courtiers who would be staring at her, anxious to read any hints from her expression about how she felt regarding her return to court but she didn't want to enter the Hall looking as though she could not walk in under her own power.

A sea of faces surrounded her, some of them sympathetic, some of them unfriendly and most of them curious. They were all watching her, waiting to see what she would do and, for a moment, Mary wanted nothing more than to be able to turn and run from the room, refusing to enter but, even if her pride would not have prevented such a display, she knew better than to try it. If the orders the Duke of Norfolk was given regarding the liberties he might take if she did not cooperate were any indication, she couldn't be certain that her father would not order that she should be carried into the Hall by force if she refused to enter voluntarily.

When the Duke of Suffolk approached her, flanked by his family, she felt relieved to see their friendly faces and to know that, even if they could not say anything, for fear of angering her father, they still felt sympathetic towards her.

"Lady Mary." Brandon bowed deeply. "You've met my wife, Catherine." Catherine curtsied deeply, murmuring a greeting. "And I'm sure that you remember this young man." He added, smiling as Edward made his bow. "Though he's grown since you saw him last."

"It is an honour to see you again, Lady Mary." Edward told her solemnly.

Mary smiled. "I am pleased to see you, cousin." She told him before turning her attention to Brandon again, knowing that he would be the one most likely to know where she stood with her father. "My father..." She straightened, drawing herself to her full height. "I would like to see him."

"Of course." Brandon said gently, motioning for a page to approach. "Tell His Majesty that the Lady Mary has arrived and that she requests an audience with him to pay her respects." He instructed firmly, watching the page bow and hasten towards Henry's Privy Chamber to deliver the message.

Mary let out a small, scarcely perceptible sigh of relief, hoping that when she came face to face with her father, alone with him for the first time in years, she would be able to remind him of his great love for her and that, faced with her presence, he would know that he could not continue to deny her her rights. When Chapuys brought her the news that her father had refused to consent to her restoration to the succession and that, to make matters worse, she was to return to the court to act as Elizabeth's maid-in-waiting, the thought made her ill but surely the situation could not be as bad as she had initially feared.

Her father loved and cared for her still, she had to believe that.

When the page returned a couple of minutes later, his expression was shame-faced.

"Well?" Brandon asked sharply, knowing that this was not a good sign.

"His Majesty will not receive the Lady Mary." The page reported, looking as though he would dearly love to be doing anything else if it meant that he did not have to be the one to deliver this message. "He commanded me to tell you that, when you take the Oath of Succession and acknowledge your illegitimacy, he will be pleased to receive you and to welcome you as his daughter, my lady." He swallowed, not wanting to continue but knowing that he had no choice. "Until you do, he said that you are no daughter of his and will be merely a servant at his court." He couldn't apologize for delivering this message, not when it was at the King's express command that he did so, but he bowed slightly before moving off. "My lady."

Mary felt numb and, for a long moment, she could not move a muscle and even her breathing seemed to have slowed. She couldn't believe what she was hearing but it was true. She heard a snort of derisive laughter and knew without looking that it came from the Earl of Wiltshire. Anne's father had been the one to come to her to inform her of Archbishop Cranmer's so-called verdict and to tell her that she was no longer a Princess and that she was forbidden to see her mother until she accepted this. Of course he would take delight in her father's message.

So would Anne once she was told.

Brandon's expression was sympathetic, as was his wife's, and young Edward looked puzzled, undoubtedly finding it difficult to believe that any father could treat his own child so callously.

A couple of weeks ago, Mary too would have thought it impossible for her father to behave so cruelly towards her, deliberately shaming her before his court by making it plain to her that he would not be willing to see her until she repudiated her mother and denied her own rights, showing them that she no longer had his love or protection.

Now, she was proven wrong and it broke her heart.

* * *

Mary thought that Lady Bryan looked pleased when she was escorted up to the wing where Elizabeth's nursery was located and turned over to her charge. She knew that the woman was devoted to little Elizabeth and wondered if she was taking especially satisfaction from the fact that Mary was, once more, relegated to the life of a servant because, for a time, however brief, she had had good cause to fear that the toddler in her charge would be exposed as the bastard she was while Mary was restored as Princess.

Whatever her feelings about the situation, there was no trace of sympathy in Lady Bryan's eyes as she showed Mary the rooms that made up Elizabeth's suite, listing her tasks as they moved through them, or when she stopped outside a door, opening it to reveal a long chamber illuminated by high windows, with a row of narrow beds lining one wall.

Mary counted six beds, noting that five of them were neatly made up while the sixth was bare, with the sheets and blankets folded and set on the trunk at the end.

"This is where you are to sleep, Lady Mary." Lady Bryan informed her, indicating the unmade bed with a wave of her hand. "When we have finished here, you may make your bed and unpack your things. It is one of the dormitories for the Princess Elizabeth's maids. The two girls who accompanied you from Hatfield will be lodged in the second dormitory – and they will, naturally, be transferred to the Princess' household immediately." She added, as though Mary should have expected that this would be the case.

Mary was ready to protest at this indignity, appalled that she was to be worse off here than she had been at Hatfield where she had at least had a room of her own, even though the room had been a hovel compared to the accommodation she had been accustomed to during her time at court and at Ludlow, and was ready to march downstairs and drag her father up to the dormitory if she had to do so in order to show him how poorly his Concubine was daring to treat her, to shock him into relenting, but she was stunned into silence by Lady Bryan's next words.

"His Majesty the King has ordered that you are to lodge here, just as he has given orders that you may no longer be attended by the maids that he, in his generosity, allowed you before you proved to be so obdurate and so ungrateful for his kindness as to refuse to take the Oath when you were called upon to do so." Lady Bryan continued, ignoring the fact that, when the two maids were assigned to Mary's service, they were assigned unconditionally, with no fresh demands being made for her to take the Oath in exchange for this concession.

At the time, Anne had been arrested and it was expected that her child would be disinherited before she was much older so the King had had no reason to force his daughter to submit and take the Oath, not when the Act of Parliament that had led to its circulation might soon be repealed.

"You are a servant, Lady Mary, and His Majesty orders that you are to be treated as one. You will have no servant of your own and you will be treated exactly as the other ladies of the Princess' household are. There will be no special privileges." Lady Bryan stressed her point.

Mary merely nodded, determined not to give this woman the satisfaction of seeing her flinch or to allow her to run to Anne with stories of how dismayed she had been to learn of the kind of life that she was to lead at court. She had been poorly housed before and she could endure having to lodge in this dormitory – and, even if she was to have to lose her privacy, at least the dormitory was cleaner, brighter and better furnished than the chamber she was assigned when she first came to Hatfield. She had also gone without the services of a maid for two and a half years, so she knew that, although it would be an inconvenience to her, she could cope with the lack of attendants now.

"If that is my father's wish, then I will accept it." She said coolly, keeping her dignity and trying not to swoon or retch at this fresh evidence of her father's callousness towards her.

"I am pleased to hear that you are at least beginning to understand your place in the world, Lady Mary." Lady Bryan told her. "The King's orders were plain and I intend to follow them to the letter. You will have your duties in Princess Elizabeth's household and I expect to see you carry out those duties faithfully. His Majesty has given me leave to punish you as I see fit if you dare to shirk your tasks or to disobey any instructions I give you or if you fail to treat Princess Elizabeth with the respect that the Princess of England is due." She added, moving her hand slightly so that Mary could have no doubt about the form of punishment she had in mind.

Mary had seen Lady Bryan slap Elizabeth's other attendants on occasion before today, particularly if they neglected their little charge in any way, but she herself had never been subjected to such an indignity. Her father might have called her a bastard but as long as he was acknowledging her as his own child, her status as a royal child, even one who had been illegitimised, meant that the governess did not dare to raise a hand to her.

She couldn't bear to believe that her father was now prepared to give Lady Bryan free reign to strike her if she so pleased. She needed to believe that the governess was bluffing in order to frighten her into obedience. However, even though she could not bring herself to believe that her father had consented to this, she would take care to obey Lady Bryan, so that she would never need to find out that she was wrong.

"The King has also commanded that, until you obey his commands and take the Oath of Succession, you are to be restricted to the nurseries unless you are given express permission to leave. You may not go out into the gardens, you may not mix with the courtiers without my supervision and under no circumstances may you appear in front of the people. His Majesty commanded that I make it plain to you that should you dare to flout these orders, you will be severely punished for doing so. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Lady Bryan." Mary responded. If her father commanded that she should not appear before the people or venture out of the nursery, she had no choice but to obey, even though she knew the reason for this prohibition. Her father and Anne would not want to take the risk of allowing her to be seen in public for fear that the people would cry out in support of her, just as they had cried out in support of her mother when her father first sought to set her aside in favour of Anne. They would not want to take the chance that she would win the people's support away from them.

"You are also forbidden to receive any visitors here, not without permission and without witnesses present to ensure that you are not engaging in treasonous activity." Lady Bryan finished. "And this prohibition extends to the Imperial ambassador. Have you any questions, Lady Mary?"

Mary did not.

Her father had been very thorough, leaving nothing to chance. His commands would ensure that she was unable to evade the vigilance of Lady Bryan and her fellow attendants, unable to appeal to the support of the courtiers or of the common people. She would have to carry out her duties as one of Elizabeth's maids, forced to wait on Anne's child and to pretend that little Elizabeth was a princess, curtseying to the toddler and being seen to do so.

Her life at court would be difficult and unhappy... until she took the Oath.

If she took the oath, her circumstances would undoubtedly improve. She would be reconciled with her father, housed comfortably and treated with far more honour than she had been in the past few years, but at what cost?

She couldn't take the Oath; if she did, she might as well shout from the rooftops of the palace that her mother had been her father's unwitting whore rather than his true wife and that she was nothing but a bastard who had only ever pretended to the title of Princess.

But if she didn't take the Oath, how long would her father be prepared to continue to treat her like this?

"I will leave you to get settled, Lady Mary." Lady Bryan told her brusquely. "Your trunk will be brought upstairs so that you can pack – and nobody is going to help you with that, my lady, so you might as well accept that you will be doing it for yourself – and you will resume your duties in the morning. No excuses will be accepted for failing to do so." She added, in case Mary might have had any ideas about pleading illness and refusing to report for duty.

With that, she was gone, striding out of the dormitory and shutting the door firmly behind her, leaving Mary alone to process the details of the life she was now to live.

She would not have to endure this for long, Mary told herself. She needed to believe that this was true, that her father would soon come to his senses and repent of his treatment of her.

Sooner or later, he would realize how wrong it was for him to treat her like this, or else Anne would do something to anger him and to make him realize that he should not be seeking to humiliate his own daughter, the pearl of his world, in order to please that woman, that Anne was not worth the effort he was making to placate her.

It could not last for long.

* * *

Thomas Boleyn was not a man accustomed to apologizing or a man who liked to be put in a position where he had to ask others for favours, particularly when he could not be certain that the favour he sought would be granted but, this time, he was willing to do so.

He had not communicated with his elder daughter since the day she was banished from court, cut off from the family as punishment for her unfitting marriage and, but for the fact that he believed that his younger daughter stood in desperate need of her sister's company and comfort, he would not be doing so now.

Even if he did not actually voice an apology in his letter, the fact that he was the one to write to Mary was tantamount to an expression of regret over his decision to cut her off and, although it was couched as an invitation, she would know that his request for her to return to court was truly a plea for her to do so.

Under other circumstances, he would never have dreamed of taking this step but he was worried about Anne. Except for the time she spent with little Elizabeth, she was quiet and withdrawn, utterly unlike herself. She seemed to be content to shut herself away in her rooms and to refuse to interact with any of the court, and he did not think that it would be healthy for her to continue to do so, or that it would be wise.

He couldn't understand what Anne was thinking about everything that happened, not truly; he could understand her anger and her feelings of betrayal but there was something else, something that he could sense but that eluded his understanding. Had her mother still lived, he would have had her speak to Anne, to find out more about what she felt and to give her whatever comfort she needed but his wife was long dead, which meant that Mary was the next best thing.

He might not like the idea of pleading with his older daughter for her help but, if Anne needed Mary, then bringing her back to court was the least he could do.

He owed Anne that much, at least.


	10. Chapter 10

**_3rd June 1536_ **

When Boleyn wrote to his eldest daughter, he asked her to meet him in the courtyard, wanting to speak with her before he brought her to Anne's rooms and to preserve some discretion. There were so many people who were watching Anne and her family with eager eyes, anxious to find out how things were between her and the King, and whether the Boleyns were still powerful or whether it was only a matter of time before they fell from grace again and he was not eager to add fuel to the fires by having the disowned daughter paraded through the court just yet.

When Mary arrived, he was pleased to note that his daughter was looking well. He had half-expected that she would look careworn and older than her years, had half-expected that her face would show the signs of the difficulty that he imagined that a life cut off from the court, left to fend for herself with a husband who had neither a fortune to his name or the prospect of one, would show in her countenance but instead Mary was blooming.

Her life in the country plainly agreed with her.

Mary was always different.

George and Anne were ambitious, thriving in the court atmosphere from an early age and, while they both enjoyed visiting Hever from time to time and while they were both fond of the little castle that had been their childhood home, he knew that neither of them would ever have been able to bear the idea of having to spend their whole lives there, never visiting the court.

In contrast, Mary preferred a quieter life and had not even taken advantage of the fact that, as the sister of the Queen of England, she could have had her pick of any number of noble suitors who would have been only too pleased to ally themselves with the Boleyn family. She could have been a countess, perhaps even a marchioness or duchess if she had played her cards wisely and asked her sister to find her a husband when Anne still stood high in the King's good graces and enjoyed his love but she remained at a distance from the rest of the family in some ways, never seeking out favours for herself, and she had chosen to marry for love, to marry a nobody.

Perhaps she was the wisest of them.

She might not be married to a rich man, or to a man with a title but, of all the family, Mary was the only Boleyn who was not clapped in the Tower and left to fear for her life in the dreadful May weeks when those foul allegations were laid against Anne and George, and when it became clear that their enemies meant to bring them down, by any means necessary.

She was safe, quietly hidden away in the country with her husband and her child.

Mary's gown was simple, of course, as he had expected; her husband was a poor man and Boleyn had kept his word, cutting off his daughter's allowance and refusing to pay so much as a penny to his new son-in-law as a dowry, so he could imagine that they would have more vital things to spend what little money they had on than new gowns. He would have to see to it that she was supplied with funds to ensure that she was able to attire herself suitably while she was at court. The last thing he needed or wanted was to provoke fresh gossip by allowing his daughter to appear at court looking like a poor relation. Even if it was known at court that Mary had been banished and that her family had cut her off without a penny, it was important for them to show that she was welcomed back and that the Boleyn family was united once more.

They had plenty of enemies who would be all too willing to exploit any perceived rift in the family for their own ends, so that they might try to bring them down.

Despite the plainness of her attire, however, Mary still looked lovely, her colour high and a small smile on her face as she entered the courtyard and spotted him, coming forward to greet him.

He would have been entirely satisfied with her appearance, but for one thing.

She was not alone.

A toddler, a tiny girl who could not have been more than two years of age, if she was even as old as that, was walking by her side, clinging tightly to Mary's hand. Like Mary's, the toddler's blue woollen gown was crumpled with travel and black curls escaped from underneath her white cap.

"Who is that?" It was not how he had intended to greet Mary, especially when he had asked her to come to court as a favour to him and to Anne, but Boleyn couldn't help blurting the question.

"This is your granddaughter, Father." Mary told him coolly, stiffening slightly at his sharp tone and tightening her grip on her child's hand. "Anne Stafford. We call her Annie. William and I cannot afford to engage a nursemaid for our daughter, so I was obliged to bring her here with me today." There was no trace of embarrassment in Mary's voice as she made her explanation for the toddler's presence, although both she and her father were well aware of the fact that any other courtier would have been deeply shamed to have to make such an admission. Poverty was not something that anybody of noble family would ever want to admit to, even if it was the truth. Courtiers borrowed heavily if they could not afford to meet their expenses, incurring debt out of pride and the need to appear prosperous rather than trying to make do without the necessary attendants, clothes and jewels their position demanded for the sake of economy. "This is your Grandpapa, Annie," she explained to the tiny girl, not giving her father a chance to refuse to acknowledge his grandchild, something she knew he would be capable of doing if he so chose.

Annie beamed up at Boleyn with the open affection of a toddler, waving at him with a small, plump hand. "H'lo G'ampa." She greeted him cheerfully.

Boleyn forced himself to smile, reaching down to pat her head. "Hello, Annie." He greeted her briefly before turning his attention to his daughter. "Thank you for coming here today, Mary." He told her, tucking his arm through hers and beginning to lead her into the palace, moving as quickly as Annie's pace allowed to avoid meeting anybody on their way.

"I would have come sooner, if I could." Mary responded, knowing that her father would understand her meaning. Even though she was Anne's sister, she had been banished from the court and could therefore not return whenever she pleased. She had had to wait until she received an invitation before she could set foot in Whitehall again and, if she was honest with herself, she had to admit that she felt irritated with her father for waiting a full two weeks since Anne's release to send word to her that she could come, instead of dispatching a messenger as soon as he possibly could.

Didn't he understand how worrying the past weeks and months were for her?

Didn't he understand that, even in the country, gossip about Anne's weakening position, particularly after she miscarried the long hoped-for prince, reached their ears, along with news of her arrest and of the fact that she and George were convicted of incest and condemned to death, on the King's orders?

Didn't he understand how she felt when she heard that her brother and sister were to die?

At first, Mary could not believe that it was true.

The last time she was at court, she could see for herself that the King's passion for Anne had cooled somewhat since the days of their great romance. It was known that he took mistresses – though he at least made an attempt to be discreet about it, more of an attempt than he had made with Katherine, when he brazenly seduced her own ladies under her nose – and that he was disappointed that her two pregnancies had yielded only a single living daughter and one stillborn child, leaving him without the son he needed to secure the survival of Tudor dynasty.

However, he was also making moves to ensure that Anne's position as Queen was secure, despite his disappointment, and to ensure that little Elizabeth was accepted as the lawful heir to the throne, ahead of her elder half-sister, until she had a brother, even going so far as to demand that every English subject should take an Oath swearing that they accepted his new wife and daughter as the rightful Queen and Princess, promising to punish those who refused so Mary had believed that the King's love for her sister was still deep, even if she was no longer the only woman in the world for whom he had eyes, and that she was safe.

It horrified her to learn that she was wrong.

It would have been bad enough if the King had sought to annul his marriage to Anne – and Mary was uncomfortably conscious of the fact that her liaison with the King all those years ago could have been used as grounds to dissolve his marriage to her sister, rendering her little niece a bastard and stripping her of her rights as a Princess – but she would never have predicted that he could have wanted Anne dead, especially when he had once loved her so much and after all he had done in order to make her his wife in the first place.

Even if he wanted to be rid of her, even if he had a third wife in mind, Mary had not thought that he would be capable of murder.

Anne had probably never imagined that to be a possibility either.

"How is Anne?" She asked her father in a low voice as they walked. She stopped and bent down to pick up little Annie when the toddler grew tired and began to clamour to be lifted up, settling her daughter on her hip before continuing on their way.

Boleyn lowered his voice before responding, glancing about to make sure that there was nobody within earshot. "It's been very difficult for her, as I'm sure you can imagine." He told her. "I've never seen Anne so quiet, or so remote. She barely says a word to the King, or to most of the court. She hardly ever leaves her apartment, unless she's going to the nursery to see Elizabeth. I'm worried about her, Mary. She won't talk to me about how she feels about what's happened. That's why I needed you to come."

Mary nodded comprehension. For a moment, she was very tempted to ask her father whether or not he had spoken up on Anne's behalf when the investigation and the trial first began but she could guess the answer to that question. Her father was not a man who would brave the anger of his sovereign, even on behalf of his own children. At least, if her father had not spoken for Anne then, her concern for her seemed to be genuine now, and that was more important.

"At least there's some good news." Boleyn remarked. "The King has made it clear that he still regards the Lady Mary as nothing but a bastard; he has ordered the obstinate girl to continue to wait on Elizabeth, whether she likes it or not, and refuses to receive her until she takes the Oath. He declared as much before the whole court when Lady Mary arrived from Hatfield."

"The poor girl." Mary was well aware of the fact that it was for Anne's sake and Elizabeth's that it had to be made plain to everybody that Mary was no longer a princess and no longer entitled to any place in the line of succession but that did not mean that she took any pleasure in knowing that the young girl who had been brought up to believe herself to be the Princess of Wales was being humiliated by being forced to act as a servant to her little half-sister, especially when she knew how the girl must be grieving for the loss of her beloved mother and that she did not need to suffer any more than she had already. Her desire to see to it that her sister's position and that of her niece were secure did not mean that she could not feel sympathy towards the Lady Mary, who had endured so much pain over the past years.

"That's what Anne said." Boleyn remarked, feeling rather mystified by her reaction towards what he regarded as excellent news. It seemed that both of his daughters were too soft for their own good, sympathizing with Mary over the hardships she would endure as a direct result of her own obstinacy and disobedience instead of wanting to ensure that the King did not waver in his stern stance towards her, for the sake of their family.

Although he was pleased to see the King make it clear that he had no intention of restoring his eldest daughter to the succession, whatever the Emperor might say about that, and although he was glad of the fact that Mary was to be taught her place by being brought back to court as Elizabeth's attendant, Boleyn was not entirely at ease about the situation, far from it.

The King could very easily change his mind and only a fool would discount that possibility. He was a proud man, and that might work in their favour, as he would be disinclined to go back on what he had said about Mary being a bastard but, at the same time, the possibility could not be discounted entirely. When it looked as though Jane Seymour was going to be Queen in the very near future, it was assumed that she would be able to persuade the King to disinherit little Elizabeth and restore Mary as heir, at least until she had a son... though Boleyn would have preferred to see Mary beheaded and any brat that Jane Seymour managed to bear tossed in the Thames before he saw either of them usurp his granddaughter's rights as the King's heir.

When the King decided to recall Mary, Boleyn felt some concern, even though she was being recalled as a servant and even though the King stated that he had no intention of restoring her, even if his refusal put his alliance with the Emperor at risk. It would be all too easy for the King to soften towards his eldest daughter if the wretched girl managed to get close to him again, reminding him of how much he had once loved and cherished the girl who was his only living child for so long, and if that happened he might change his mind about her status.

Boleyn knew better than to think that Anne was in the frame of mind to focus on charming the King, winning back his attention and affections and ensuring that he would not give the idea of Mary's restoration the slightest thought out of love for her. After everything that had happened, she could not be expected to sweeten her behaviour towards the King, not after the way he had hurt and betrayed her. It would be a long time before she was ready for friendly relations with her husband, let alone anything more than that.

It was therefore vital for him to ensure that none of the courtiers sought to work on the Lady Mary's behalf and against Anne and Elizabeth's interests. If he was able to convince them that he did not consider it even remotely possible that Mary's return to court could lead to a return to her former status, if he was able to make them believe that he did not consider that the wretched girl had any chance of posing a threat to his family's interests, that the idea was so laughable that he could publicly call her 'bastard' with impunity, they would not try to ally themselves with Mary.

Any courtier with sense would always ally himself with the rising star, shunning those who had fallen from grace for fear that they would be tainted by association. Although many might think it noble to stand by those who were weak and to try to aid them, however they could, few courtiers would be foolish and impractical enough to pledge their support to a lost cause, especially when there was a very real risk that they might find themselves dragged down by the person they sought to help and left to share in their disgrace.

Even if Anne and the King were not getting on especially well these days, it was vital that Boleyn be able to make the courtiers believe that she was still the one to support, and that it was her child who would one day succeed the King, not the Lady Mary.

Everything depended on it.

Anne was not by herself when they reached her apartment but Boleyn had not expected that she would be, she was too careful these days to allow that, always ensuring that she was properly attended. She rose when he entered, setting aside her embroidery and greeting him with a small smile that turned to an expression of astonishment when she saw that Mary was with him.

"I invited Mary to court for a visit." Boleyn explained before Anne could ask.

"Hello, Your Majesty." Mary greeted her sister, curtseying as gracefully as she could while balancing her child in her arms. When Anne did not say anything, seeming too surprised for speech, she continued. "This is my daughter, Anne Stafford – Annie." She introduced.

Annie wriggled in her mother's arms, holding her plump arms out to her aunt. "Kiss!" Her imperious demand drew a smile from her aunt, who walked over to kiss her chubby cheek.

"She's beautiful." Anne said, smiling at her niece before she looked up at her sister. "How are you, sister?" She asked quietly, more relieved to see Mary than she cared to say.

"I'm well." Mary didn't echo her sister's question. Even if Anne claimed that she was well, Mary wouldn't believe her. After all she had endured, she couldn't possibly have emerged unscathed. She noticed her father quietly dismissing most of Anne's ladies, although Nan Saville, Madge Shelton and Mistress Gainsford all remained behind, sitting discreetly by the windows. In her arms, Annie yawned deeply, resting her head on her shoulder. "She's tired," she told Anne, rubbing Annie's back. "Is there somewhere I can put her down for a nap?" She knew little Annie well enough to know that, although she was cheerful and sociable at the moment, it would only be a matter of minutes, a quarter of an hour at the very most, before she became overtired and cranky, and a tearful toddler certainly would not help Anne relax.

"Of course." Anne nodded automatically. "Elizabeth's taking her nap now. Annie can join her in the nursery. Lady Shelton." She beckoned for Madge to step forward. "Please bring my niece down to the Princess' nursery and tell them that she is to take a nap with Elizabeth – and let Lady Bryan know that I will be visiting this afternoon, when Elizabeth is awake." She added, although the message was an unnecessary one. She either visited the nursery or sent a message instructing that Elizabeth should be brought to her apartment to visit her every afternoon after her daughter's nap, enjoying the extra hours of play with her child and she doubted that Lady Bryan would expect that today would be any different.

"Yes, Your Majesty." Madge responded, curtseying.

Mary gave her cousin a smile before handing little Annie over to her. "Be a good girl, sweetheart." She told her daughter, waving as Madge carried her out of Anne's apartment. Once the toddler had been borne away, she put one arm around her sister's shoulders, steering her towards the chairs by the fire. Their father hung back, as though unsure whether he should join them or whether it would be better if he slipped away and left them alone. She nodded towards the door, almost imperceptibly and, for once, her father acknowledged the signal and nodded in response.

"Excuse me, Your Majesty." He said to Anne, inclining his head respectfully and waiting for her to signal permission before he backed out of the apartment.

"I would have been here sooner, I wanted to come as soon as I heard what was happening." Mary told Anne once they were seated. Although it was irritating to know that Nan and Mistress Gainsford would be remaining in the apartment, rather than leaving to give them some privacy as they would have before, both ladies seemed to respect the fact that the Boleyn sisters needed to speak privately and they remained at a distance, focusing on their sewing rather than on them. "Once Father sent his message to me, I came as quickly as I could."

"Thank you." Anne's voice was soft as she spoke, meeting Mary's eyes for a moment before lowering her gaze to stare into the heart of the fire. It was a relief to have her sister with her again, to know that there was one more person at the court that she could feel confident was on her side and would support her and Elizabeth but she also didn't know what to say to Mary now that she was here.

What could she say?

Mary would already know a great deal about what had happened, she would know that Henry had ordered her arrest and George's, along with the arrests of other men accused of being her lovers. She would know that they had been tried, with their own uncle presiding, and that they had been sentenced to death, locked up in the Tower with nothing to think about but their impending executions... until Henry decided that he couldn't go through with it.

Relating the facts of the situation would be a pointless exercise when her sister already knew the gist of the story, and she couldn't bring herself to tell Mary the kind of thoughts and feelings that had been running through her mind, either before her arrest, after her arrest, when she was awaiting her execution or after Henry had ordered her release, which is what their father had undoubtedly asked Mary to come to court to speak with her about.

It was too soon for her to feel ready to share that with anybody, even with the older sister who had been her closest confidante during her childhood, one of the only two people with whom she was able to share any of her secrets, knowing that she could confess to the most outrageous mischief and feel certain that neither of them would ever betray her to their nurse or governess.

George never spoke to her these days, never came near her.

He blamed her for what had happened, at least in part, she knew that.

She might have lost her brother and, although part of her longed to be able to confide in her sister, to tell Mary everything that had happened, to hear her sister comfort and reassure her and even to cry in Mary's arms, releasing the emotions that she had kept bridled until now, another part of her – the stronger part or the weaker? – couldn't allow her to do it.

So she said nothing.

She felt a warm hand encircle hers and looked up to see Mary looking at her, her expression sympathetic and her eyes bright with compassion.

"It's alright." Her sister's voice was gentle. "You're not ready to talk about it yet, are you? It's alright." She repeated reassuringly. "Whenever you want to talk, I'll be here."

* * *

The toddler in her arms was a solid weight and the distance between the Queen's apartment and the nursery was not an inconsiderable one so Madge Shelton was very glad when she reached her destination, nodding for one of the pages stationed outside the nursery to open the door for her, admitting her to the Princess' sunny nursery.

"This is Anne Stafford, Lady Bryan, Her Majesty's niece. She's called Annie." She explained when she saw Princess Elizabeth's governess looking at her quizzically, curious about the child's identity. "Her Majesty told me to bring her down here so that she could take a nap with the Princess, and she asked me to let you know that she will visit the nursery later, when the Princess is awake."

"Of course." Lady Bryan nodded before looking across the room at the young girl who was busy stitching at a tiny gown Madge recognized as belonging to Elizabeth, one that the little princess had torn yesterday during a romp with the Queen. "You may leave that mending for a few minutes, Lady Mary," the governess announced, as though she was conferring an enormous favour on the former princess. "Go into Princess Elizabeth's bedchamber, and turn down the covers on the other side of the bed for this little lady." She commanded, reaching out to take Annie from Madge and settling the toddler on her hip, tickling her under the chin and smiling at her. "Her Majesty may rest assured that we will take excellent care of little Mistress Stafford." She told Madge. "It will be our honour to care for the Queen's niece – will it not, Lady Mary?" The pointed question was directed at the King's daughter, who did not answer, except with a tightening of her mouth that suggested that she was far from honoured by the presence of another of Anne's kinswomen, even one as young as Annie.

The Lady Mary would have been quite content if the entire Boleyn family, and all those connected with them, were banished from court, forbidden ever to return.

Lady Bryan was accustomed by now to Mary's sullenness so she said no more as she followed her into Elizabeth's bedchamber, waiting until she had folded back the silken bedcovers and then settling the sleepy toddler next to her cousin, who yawned and turned over onto her side, reaching out to rest one arm over Annie, as she would have cuddled her doll to her. She tucked the covers closely around the two children, watching for a few moments to ensure that Annie was settling down to sleep and that Elizabeth had not been disturbed by the arrival of another child in her bed before she stole out of the room, motioning for Mary to follow her.

"Back to your sewing at once, Lady Mary." She said sharply when the girl hesitated for a brief moment before returning to her task. "Think not to avoid the task – there will be no shirking or laziness among the servants of the Princess Elizabeth while I am her governess." She declared sternly, looking first at the other ladies attending Elizabeth and then at Madge, as though she hoped that she would tell Anne about how well Princess Elizabeth's little household was being run, to reassure the Queen that the governess had matters well in hand.

"The _Lady_ Elizabeth." Mary said mutinously, glancing in Madge's direction and seeing the expression on the young woman's face change from one of sympathy to one of shock, then one of outrage, clearly appalled to hear Mary refer to the daughter of her mistress by a title that would be fitting for a royal bastard rather than a princess. She didn't care if Lady Shelton ran straight to Anne with tales of how Mary had indicated that she considered Elizabeth to be a bastard – in fact, she _wanted_ her to do just that. She wanted Anne to know that, no matter how she was treated, no matter what spells Anne cast on her father, she would never give in. She would never pretend that Elizabeth was anything other than the bastard she was. " _I_ am the Princess."

"You're an impudent, disobedient, traitorous bastard and nothing more, girl." Lady Bryan instinctively lifted her hand, as though ready to box Mary's ears for daring to imply that her little charge was a bastard, but she lowered it after a moment, clearly thinking better of the gesture. One could not be certain how the King would react to the idea of his daughter being struck if word of it was carried to him, after all, and, though Mary was clearly out of favour with her father at the moment, things were still very uncertain... too uncertain for a mere governess to take the drastic step of striking a daughter of the King's.

Neither the lifting of her hand nor her hesitation was lost on Mary, however. The young girl permitted herself a small, triumphant smile, relieved to see that, for all Lady Bryan's bluster about having permission to hit her, the governess had either been given no such permission or else had been given the authority to strike her but dared not take advantage of it, for fear that she would be made to pay for daring to do so at a later date, when Mary's position was strong once more.

She was right to worry.

Once Mary was Princess of Wales again, she intended to see to it that Lady Bryan was punished for the disrespectful manner with which she had dared to treat the heir to the throne over the past few years. While Mary knew that the governess could not be blamed for the fact that she was ordered to serve as a maid to her half-sister, her father's bastard by Lady Anne, and while she knew that those at Hatfield would have been commanded never to address her by her true title of Princess and to ensure that she was made to work in her capacity as Elizabeth's attendant, instead of her position in the child's household being in name only, Lady Bryan's treatment of her was always disrespectful at best and cruel at worst.

Mary would not forget that.

Lady Bryan scowled when she saw this. It was her responsibility to keep order among the ladies of Elizabeth's little household and that responsibility extended to keeping her little charge's illegitimate half-sister in line and ensuring that the girl was taught her proper place in the household but what could she do when, though the Lady Mary might be dismissed as a bastard now, nobody could guarantee that she would not be restored as a princess one day, perhaps soon?

If she treated the girl too harshly, she was likely to have to pay the price for it if the Lady Mary was ever restored to her father's good graces, whether she was restored as a princess or not, as the King would be outraged by any tales of mistreatment, tales that would undoubtedly be richly embroidered upon if the Lady Mary was ever given a chance to tell them. However, if she treated the girl too leniently, allowing her to go her own way instead of curbing her and working to quash her pride and her vanity, then the King might become angry that his daughter was not learning her place, as he had ordered, and he would blame Lady Bryan for not having worked more diligently to cure his daughter of her obstinacy and force her to understand her new place in life.

It was a great honour for her to be the governess of the Princess Elizabeth and Lady Bryan took pride in that role and loved the small child she had been entrusted with the care of but, when her role also gave her the task of having to deal with the Lady Mary, it made her position a very difficult one, and she could never be certain how she ought to act in situations like today's.

If she struck Mary, and the King heard of it, she might find herself in trouble for that but, on the other hand, if Lady Shelton told the Queen of what had happened, reporting that she had heard the Lady Mary insult the Princess Elizabeth and that Lady Bryan had not punished her for daring to do so, the Queen would be angry with her for that.

Lady Bryan contented herself with a compromise. She raised her voice as she spoke again, so that all of Elizabeth's attendants could hear her words. "As punishment for her rudeness towards the Princess, the Lady Mary will tend to all of Her Highness' mending this week." She announced, before turning to Madge. "And as the Lady Mary is too foolish and too ill-bred to apologize for her bad behaviour, please offer Her Majesty the Queen my sincere apologies on her behalf – and tell her that if she wishes for me to punish the Lady Mary more severely, I will do so."

"Yes, Lady Bryan." Madge felt uncomfortable in the nursery and was eager to leave it, so she retreated from the room as quickly as good manners allowed.

She had no intention of telling her cousin of what had transpired in the nursery, of course.

Like all of Anne's ladies, she knew that her mistress was already very upset by the thought that her beloved child might have been declared a bastard so that her half-sister could be called a princess once more and, as she cared for her cousin, she did not want to have to hurt her by telling her that the Lady Mary had dared to insult Princess Elizabeth by implying that she was a bastard – an implication that meant that she viewed Anne herself as a concubine rather than as the rightful Queen of England. Queen Anne had endured so much pain over the past months already. Madge had no intention of adding to it by telling her what Lady Mary had said.

To judge by the exchange in the nursery, Lady Bryan was not a woman who would easily tolerate such behaviour from the Lady Mary and, as the governess seemed to have the matter well in hand, Madge could rest easily at the thought of keeping this from the Queen.

What Queen Anne did not know could not distress her.

Mary didn't allow herself to show any sign of anger or unhappiness at Lady Bryan's pronouncement of her punishment, nor did she voice a protest. Her father had commanded that she should serve as Elizabeth's attendant and that she should perform any tasks that the governess instructed her to and Mary freely acknowledged that, though she did not wish to, she had a duty to obey her father and to do as he commanded of her, which meant accepting the task that Lady Bryan had decreed for her, even though it was intended as a punishment for telling the truth and for refusing to denounce her birthright.

The other ladies who attended Elizabeth were only too pleased to hear Lady Bryan's edict, of course. Of all the tasks that Elizabeth's maids-in-waiting were called upon to perform, there was a general consensus that mending was one of the very dullest tasks, the task that none of them would ever willingly seek out. They were happy to fold up the garments they were sewing or darning and to place them in the workbasket at Mary's side, none of them whispering an offer to assist her once Lady Bryan was safely out of the way bringing Elizabeth for a walk, even though they knew that it would take her almost the whole day to finish the mending unaided. Not one of them hesitated for even a moment before doing so.

They were undoubtedly pleased to be able to relinquish the task, especially as Lady Bryan would ordinarily have insisted that they keep at their task until it was completed, even if that meant that they were obliged to sacrifice some of their leisure time in order to ensure that all of Elizabeth's mending was done, and done well. Lady Bryan was not a woman who would be slow to command that sloppy work should be unpicked and redone, until the result satisfied her exacting standards.

No pleas of other arrangements, or of a desire to walk in the gardens before the daylight was gone, or promises that they would finish their mending tomorrow, without fail, if they might only be allowed to leave it for today had ever had the power to move Lady Bryan.

This week would be a pleasant one for Elizabeth's ladies, a week free of needlework and a week where they would be allowed more leisure hours than they usually would be allowed – something that would be especially welcome when they were at court, with so many diversions available to them that they would not have at Hatfield. They were delighted with that and not one of them seemed to care that her freedom would come at Mary's expense.

Lady Bryan watched with stern eyes as the mending was placed in the basket by Mary's side, her hands folded in front of her as she regarded the young girl. Mary knew that she was waiting for her to apologize for what she had said, to take back her words about being Princess and to acknowledge, at last, that Elizabeth truly was the rightful Princess of England, in the hopes that if she admitted fault, she would win a remission of her punishment.

If she hoped for that, she would be disappointed.

Mary had not yielded when her father's agents had threatened that she would pay for her refusal to take the Oath with her life. She had not yielded when she was promised a return to court and to her father's good graces in exchange for acknowledging Anne Boleyn as Queen. She had not yielded when she knew that her mother was ill, that she might be dying, and that they would not be permitted to see one another until they both took the Oath, accepting that Mary's mother was never married to her father and that Mary herself was a bastard.

If she had not yielded in order that she might receive the final blessing of her dying mother, then Lady Bryan was a fool if she believed that Mary would yield in order to escape some sewing.

* * *

The liveried guard stationed outside the door leading to the King's Privy chamber banged his gavel on the floor three times, a ceremonial signal to let those within know that a visitor approached, then he announced the name in a clear voice. "Sir Anthony Knivert."

"Anthony!" Henry sprang to his feet as soon as his friend entered, not even giving Knivert a chance to make his bow before he clasped him by the hand and pulled him upright, clapping his other hand on his shoulder. Sir Thomas Audley was with him but he quietly gathered his papers together and, at Henry's signal, left the room. "Welcome back to court!" After the past few weeks, Henry was delighted to see an old friend again, somebody who was not around the court when Anne's trial was in progress and who, if he knew Knivert, would not be a man who would be overly curious about what had happened and try to coax the details from him.

Knivert had always liked Anne well enough; he was not so fond of her that he would be resentful about what had happened on her behalf but, at the same time, since he did not dislike her, he would never have tried to make trouble for her by accusing her of a crime she had not committed in the hopes that Henry would get rid of her.

He had supported Henry when he wished to marry Anne, even going so far as to offer his friend his sympathy and support when the strain of waiting made either Anne or Henry himself short-tempered, something that Henry was thankful for at the time, as he could sense that many of those he would have called his friends disapproved of his intentions and would have preferred to try to persuade him to return to Katherine and to resign himself to the idea of having no heir but Mary, if they dared to broach the issue.

He would never have allowed their opinion to alter his course of action, of course. He knew that his union with Katherine was a sinful one and that he would have been obliged to end it even if he had never met Anne, much less hoped to make her his wife, and even though he was still fond of Katherine and disliked the idea of causing her pain. However, that did not mean that it had not hurt to know that some of his own friends disapproved of what he was doing – or, worse still, that they believed he was doing it to satisfy his own desires rather than because it was the only right thing to do.

He had been very glad of Knivert's unfeigned and unwavering support.

Henry could still remember what Knivert had said the night after Anne, frustrated with the long delay, hurt by the scorn heaped on her by courtiers who viewed her as the reason for his desire to annul his marriage to Katherine and convinced that he would one day yield to Katherine's pleas to return to her and cast Anne aside, had left the court to return to Hever, despite his pleas that she remain; _"Omnia vincit Amor... No one can resist love."_

Although Knivert sometimes had a bizarre gift for putting his foot in his mouth but on other occasions, he had a knack for saying just the right thing and that had been one of those times.

He had not resided at court for quite some time now, as the management of the estates he inherited from his father had kept him occupied since before Henry married Anne but it would be good to have him back at court, to have somebody who was his friend but who was also quite warmly disposed towards Anne as well, and who might be able to advise him about what he ought to do about his wife now.

It was not that Henry did not believe what Brandon had said about genuinely believing that Anne's behaviour gave cause for concern when he broached the issue with him.

He was sure that the man who had been his close friend since boyhood would never have wanted to see him damn his soul by condemning an innocent woman, his blameless wife and the mother of his dear little daughter, to death and that, even if he disliked Anne, even if he blamed her for the troubles that had come to England for her sake and that had shadowed the country for years, Brandon would not have wanted to see her executed for a crime she had not committed, especially when she was the mother of a small child who would be hurt by the loss of her mother and left shamed by the knowledge of her supposed treason.

It would have been a difficult burden for little Elizabeth to have to live with, one that would have shadowed her childhood and the rest of her life, even if he had not annulled his marriage to her mother and deprived her of her status as princess and heir.

What royal marriage could he have found for Elizabeth if, in addition to being slandered as a bastard by the Bishop of Rome, she was the daughter of a convicted adulteress and traitor?

No prince would want or accept such a bride.

However, he was beginning to wonder whether Brandon's personal dislike of Anne, a dislike that he had never been able to conceal entirely, had predisposed him to believe that the charges were true when somebody like Knivert, who thought fairly highly of Anne, would have been slower to give credence to the idea that she might have taken other men to her bed and would have looked more closely at the allegations, entertaining a healthy degree of scepticism and wanting to be certain that there was truly cause for concern before he brought the matter to Henry's attention, knowing that once he took that step, Henry would have no choice but to order a formal investigation into the matter and wanting to make sure that they did not take such drastic measures if they did not truly need to.

If that was the case, and Brandon had allowed his personal feelings towards Anne to lead him to make his accusation without investigating it properly himself first – something that would have spared all concerned a great deal of trouble – then Henry knew that, while the other man might be a good friend and somebody whose counsel could be relied upon in other matters, he was not the man that he should speak to about so delicate a matter as his marriage.

As Brandon disliked Anne, he might not even _want_ to see the royal couple reconciled, even if he knew that it hurt Henry to know that his wife was so angry with him.

He could already sense that Brandon disapproved of the fact that he had publicly denounced Mary as the bastard she was and of his refusal to consider the idea of her restoration. He might not have come out and said anything about it but Henry could sense that both Brandon and his wife would have liked to see Mary legitimised and restored as his first rightful heir ahead of Elizabeth.

It was as though he couldn't understand that, even if Anne and Elizabeth had not been an issue, he could never live a lie by pretending that he considered his daughter to be legitimate, any more than he could expose himself to public ridicule by rewarding Mary for her years of obstinacy and disobedience towards him, her father and her sovereign, by giving her exactly what she wanted.

No monarch could ever do such a thing to any subject, not even to his dearly loved child.

He was willing to be kind to Mary and generous to her, as a man should be to a loving and obedient daughter, but it would be on his terms, not on hers, Anne or no Anne.

Once she took the Oath, he would take steps to dramatically improve her circumstances and to ensure that it was clear to the court, to the country and even to her interfering cousin the Emperor that he would honour her as his daughter and provide for her as such, but until then, she would continue to be a servant and she would enjoy neither his love nor his protection.

"I suppose that you've heard about what happened." It wasn't a question. Henry doubted that there was any adult in his kingdom who did not know about what had happened with Anne, and he was sure that the vast majority would have heard the rumours that he had planned to make Jane England's next Queen once Anne was dead. He didn't think that Knivert would prove to be the exception to the rule. He had always had a knack for learning what was going on and, when he was at court, he was usually one of the best informed courtiers.

"I heard." Knivert responded quietly. "If I may... How are you, Your Majesty?" He asked tentatively. Henry looked at him in surprise, as though he was astonished that somebody should be asking about him instead of about Anne. "It must have been difficult for Your Majesty, to be led to believe that the Queen had betrayed you." Knivert prompted.

"It was." Henry agreed, pleased with the way the conversation was going. He sat down in one of the chairs at the table, waving for Knivert to take a seat and pouring them both a goblet of wine. "When I heard... if it had been anybody but Charles who told me about it, I wouldn't have believed that it could be true. Once I heard, I _had_ to order a proper investigation – the honour of the Crown and the integrity of the succession was at stake."

"Of course you did." Knivert agreed. If he thought that it might have been wiser for Henry to content himself with a more discreet investigation, perhaps placing spies in Anne's household in order to monitor her behaviour and to make sure that there truly was cause for concern before taking the matter any further, his expression gave no indication of this.

"Cromwell and Rich handled the investigation but Cromwell was leading it. I believed that he would be fair and impartial, especially when he had known the Queen for so long," Henry continued, determinedly ignoring the fact that he had known that Anne and Cromwell had been at odds beforehand, and that Cromwell could have had ample motive to wish to get rid of Anne, by any means necessary. "Two men confessed, and Lord Rochford was implicated by his own wife – who would have thought that _she'd_ lie about it? – so I had to order a trial. I couldn't just let the matter go, not after everything I heard about her." He insisted, as much to convince himself as to convince Knivert. "She doesn't understand what it was like to hear those things, how it made me feel – I even thought that Elizabeth might not be my child!" He added, remembering how devastating it was for him when that thought first struck him.

Had that been part of the reason why he had decided to have Cranmer annul their marriage?

For himself, it made little odds to him whether Anne went to her death as Queen of England, as Marquess of Pembroke or even as plain Lady Anne, and he was conscious of the fact that if she had not been his wife, then she could not have committed adultery and that her execution could be considered an unjust one but if there was a chance that Elizabeth was not his child, and he had truly believed that this might be the case, he could not have allowed his marriage to Anne to stand valid, which would mean that Elizabeth would continue to be honoured as Princess, even above Mary, whom he could be sure was his daughter... and, even if he was not married to Katherine, he knew that she would never have tried to pass another man's child off as his.

Knivert nodded, his expression sympathetic. "You trusted them. You didn't think that they'd lie to you, especially about something as important as this. Why would you think that they would?"

"I never would have believed that they would lie." Henry repeated, scowling petulantly. "Anne doesn't understand that. She blames me for what's happened, even though I've been trying to put things right for her, and for Elizabeth." Anne must have heard about his declaration that Mary was to be regarded as nothing but a bastard and as Elizabeth's servant by now, and she was certainly intelligent enough to be able to guess that he would have done this in order to ensure that there could be no question about their daughter's status but she had not come to him to thank him for what he was doing for her and for their child, she had not even sent him a note!

Would it have killed her to put pen to parchment to write a few words of thanks to him?

Didn't she realize that it hurt him to have to treat Mary so harshly, to know that it would hurt his eldest daughter if he made it clear to her that he was not prepared to love her as a father or to regard her as anything other than a servant of Elizabeth's until she declared herself to be a bastard? Couldn't she appreciate that he was prepared to do it for her sake?

"She's a woman, Your Majesty, they don't see things the way a man would, they can't help it, even the clever ones." Knivert said, trying to sound reassuring. "She's probably upset because she thought that you would protect her from the trial in the first place, and that you would have banished Charles when he suggested that she might be misbehaving."

That was what Henry had done when Brandon dared to hint that Anne had once been the lover of Thomas Wyatt and that she was not a virgin, as she had claimed to be when she refused to become Henry's mistress. Knivert had heard all about it from his friend, who was indignant at the thought that, despite his long-standing friendship with the King, Anne's word was automatically accepted over his, with the King refusing to believe a word against her, and that he was to be banished for offending her but he knew better than to remind Henry of that now.

"Believe me, I'm beginning to wish that I had." Henry said glumly, thinking that it would be so much easier for him now if he had defended Anne's good name then, berating Brandon for suggesting that she might have committed such revolting crimes, instead of subjecting her to the trial that had won her the hearts of what seemed like most of England.

Knivert opened his mouth to speak, wanting to ask how much truth there was to the rumours he had heard about Henry having selected the lady he intended to make the next Queen of England, before Anne was actually convicted of treason, even before Henry was told of the possibility of her guilt but he shut it before he could say a word, knowing his question would be unwelcome.

His movements did not escape Henry's notice, however, and he narrowed his eyes, sighing impatiently. "What is it, Anthony? There's something you want to ask, I can tell by looking at you. You might as well spit it out."

"Forgive me, Your Majesty, I did not mean to offend you…" Knivert apologized quickly, trying to frame a diplomatic query that would satisfy his friend. "It's just that… well, there were rumours, even down in the country, and I was wondering… it was said that your marriage to the Queen might be annulled… it was probably nothing, just a stupid rumour." He said hastily, seeing his friend's mouth tighten at his words. "You know how quickly they spread."

"It was just a misunderstanding." Henry stated firmly. "Archbishop Cranmer did look into the validity of my marriage, and he found it to be a true union – as I expected and hoped he would, of course," he lied. He frowned before continuing. "I wouldn't have asked him to look into it at all in the first place, if certain people had not suggested that I might have reason to doubt it."

_When he presented her with the gold bracelet, plain and unadorned save for the jewelled miniature of himself hanging from it, a replacement for the locket that Anne had torn from her neck, Jane's smile was bright and she thanked him profusely for his generosity, insisting that she was unworthy of such a beautiful gift and of his notice. She blushed with becoming modesty when he contradicted her, telling her that he and the gift were the ones who were unworthy of her, allowing him to fasten the bracelet around her slender wrist._

_Her father and her brother were in the room with them, of course. Henry would never have dreamed of risking Jane's reputation by seeing her alone, especially when more than a few of his courtiers had already taken note of his attentions to her. The two Seymour men were sitting at a table by the window, engrossed in a game of chess, so it was easy to forget that they were there and to speak freely with Jane._

_She admired it for a moment but her expression became serious, troubled and Henry hastened to ask her what the matter was, anger surging through him at the thought that somebody might have made his sweet Jane unhappy. He inwardly resolved to have words with Anne if he learned that she was the cause, making it plain to her that, whatever her feelings on the matter, he expected her to treat Jane with the courtesy and respect that such a sweet and virtuous woman deserved to be treated with, or she would have to answer to him for it._

_"What is it, sweetheart?" He asked gently, tilting her chin with one hand so that he could look down upon her face and her pale blue eyes. He wanted to kiss her but he would not do that without her permission. "Is something troubling you?"_

_"It's nothing, Your Majesty, truly," Jane tried to reassure him but it was plain to Henry that there was something worrying her. "It's just…" She hesitated, glancing towards her brother for the briefest of instants before she looked back at Henry and shared her thoughts. "I have heard my brother, and my Lord of Suffolk speaking and…" She hesitated again, as though afraid to continue._

_She should never have had cause to fear speaking to him!_

_That day, Henry had thought that there was nothing that Jane could say that he would not want to hear. Any words from her lips would be angels' music to his ears._

_"What is it?" He asked very gently, smiling to show that she could speak freely. He once told Anne that that was the true definition of love… why was he thinking of Anne?_

_"Forgive me, Your Majesty, I don't want to make trouble for anybody." Jane apologized before speaking her mind. "They said that there were some who doubted the validity of your marriage to Queen Anne – which surprised me, especially when Her Majesty has given you a sweet little daughter – and I wondered…" She seemed to sense that she had gone too far, trying to take back what she had said, insisting that she had never meant to suggest that there was any question in her mind about the validity of his marriage and that she did not have the learning to understand the matter, begging him to forget that she had spoken and fretting at the thought that good men might be punished because she had mentioned the matter to him._

_He hastened to reassure her that he was not angry with her, that he could never be angry with her, and vowed that he would not punish those who had spoken but inwardly, he felt a thrill of excitement at her words. When Anne miscarried their son, when she dared to blame it on him, he felt furious with her and, in his anger, declared to Cromwell that he had been seduced into the marriage by sorcery and therefore considered it null and void._

_Now, from Jane's lips, he was being given a sign._

_Surely it was God's way of showing Henry the path He wished him to take._

_Surely it was a sign that he should dissolve his marriage to Anne and take a new wife._

When Jane first mentioned the suggestions that his marriage to Anne might not be valid, it simply had not occurred to Henry that she might have had an ulterior motive for suggesting it. Even Anne had not been so brazen as to suggest that he should annul his union with Katherine for her sake; he had already decided to do so long before he asked her to be his, and she could not have known that he was considering the idea of freeing himself from Katherine in order to remarry when she refused to become his mistress, as it was a secret known only to him and to Wolsey. He believed that Jane had spoken without guile, that she was genuinely perturbed by the rumours she had heard and had only spoken of them to him because he pressed her.

Now he knew better.

Now he knew that the Seymours had hoped that he would set Anne aside and make Jane his Queen in her place, and that this was something that they had been planning for quite some time, probably since he first made his affections known to Jane, even though Anne carried his son at the time, a son that they were happy to see dead because his safe arrival would have secured Anne's place as Queen. They had their eyes on the Queen's crown for Jane and it was likely that they had coached her to broach the issue of the validity of his marriage with him, in the hope that they could plant doubts in his mind about Anne so that he would set her aside and marry Jane instead.

As frustrated as he was by Anne's behaviour and as difficult as it was to know that by taking her back, he might have given up his chance to have a legitimate son, Henry preferred to be married to her when he considered that, under other circumstances, he might now be married to Jane, innocently unaware of what a ruthless schemer she was.

"Does the Queen know that the Archbishop was investigating the validity of your marriage to her?" Knivert asked quietly, diplomatically broaching the question as though Cranmer was the one with whom Anne should be angry, if she had cause for anger, even though he was well aware of the fact that the timid Archbishop would never have dared to investigate the royal marriage unless it was indicated to him that this was Henry's wish, especially when he was known to hold a high opinion of Anne, his fellow reformer.

"She knows – though I don't know how she managed to figure it out." Henry answered, frowning. "She blames me for that too. She's angry with me because she thinks that I wanted Princess Elizabeth to be declared a bastard."

"It's understandable that she'd be upset." Knivert pointed out tentatively. He could sympathize with Anne in some ways, and understand why it would anger her to learn that her marriage might have been annulled. Any woman in her position would feel the same way, particularly one who was the mother of a child. Knivert was of the opinion that Katherine would not have fought as hard against the annulment of her marriage if she had not had a daughter whose position was in jeopardy if the marriage was annulled. "If the Archbishop had found against the marriage, then the little Princess would be disinherited. The Queen is probably frightened to think of what could have happened, even though it didn't; mothers are like that." He added knowledgeably, though he was unmarried and childless. "Even when it doesn't make sense."

"But I've tried to show her that she doesn't need to worry about Elizabeth's position!" Henry protested. "I've even ordered the Lady Mary to court to wait on Elizabeth, and commanded her to admit that she is a bastard and that Elizabeth is my heir. What more does she want?"

"But, see, you're not thinking like a _woman_ , Your Majesty." Knivert pointed out, giving Henry a wry grin. "They see things differently. Maybe the Queen doesn't see that Princess Elizabeth's position is being made more secure because she doesn't see a tangible change to the situation; Elizabeth was already a princess and Mary was already a bastard to begin with, so she mightn't see that Elizabeth's position has improved unless she can see proof that it has."

"You think so?" Henry asked dubiously. Anne was clever, he knew that, so he would have thought that she would recognize what he was trying to do when he summoned Mary back to court to attend their daughter but, if Knivert was right, she might want something more from him, some kind of added reassurance that their daughter's position was safe. It made sense. Mary had acted as Elizabeth's attendant since their daughter was a baby, after all, so maybe Anne wasn't as convinced by the fact that the girl was waiting on Elizabeth at court instead of just at Hatfield as he had thought she would be.

"I think that she'll probably be happiest if she knows that her daughter is safe." Knivert said. "She'll probably come around a lot faster if you can show her that she is."

Henry nodded, thinking that Knivert's advice was perhaps the best suggestion he had heard for how he ought to deal with Anne's behaviour.

Brandon had been able to offer him little advice, except to suggest that it might be wiser not to indulge Anne in her sulkiness by pandering to her and suggesting that, if Henry ignored her petulant moods and made no attempt to try to coax her into speaking with him again, she would be the one to swallow her pride and come to him.

Brandon clearly had no idea how obstinate Anne could be when she set her mind to it; if she believed that she had a grievance against him, she would continue to shut herself away in her rooms and refuse to stir from them or to mingle with the court, opting to starve if her only alternative was to eat with her husband. Few others were able to offer constructive suggestions, and most of their ideas would only serve to make matters worse – like the remark he had overheard from Thomas Wriothesly, who was speaking to a few companions, unaware that his sovereign was within earshot, and who had advocated a good beating to bring Anne to her senses.

Even if Henry was willing to take that step, he knew his wife well enough to know that it would do his cause no good. Anne was already angry enough with him without making it worse.

Knivert was right.

If he wanted to persuade Anne to put the past behind them and to make a fresh start as man and wife and as King and Queen, Elizabeth was the key. Anne loved Elizabeth and would do anything for their child. He needed to show her that he felt the same way, that he viewed Elizabeth as England's only Princess and that he would protect her position, no matter what. He would not be able to allow himself to weaken towards Mary and be tempted to improve his daughter's position until she yielded to his will. He would have to make sure that every single English subject accepted Elizabeth as his sole legitimate heir, at least for now. Not even the prospect of an alliance with the Emperor could be allowed to sway him from his course, not if he wanted to fix this.

He reached out, laying a hand on Knivert's shoulder, grateful for his friend's counsel. "Thank you, Anthony. I think you're right."

If Anne wanted to see him make Elizabeth's position safe, that was what he would do.

* * *

"There was a prophecy, you know."

"What are you talking about?" Mary asked gently. "You never mentioned a prophecy."

Anne had been sitting in silence most of the evening, since the two little girls had been carried off to bed. She had played with Elizabeth and Annie for the afternoon, and they dined with the children in the nursery, but after that the sisters had spent the evening in Anne's room. Three of Anne's ladies were with them, sitting at the far end of the large chamber, each occupied with sewing or reading. Mary had some embroidery in her lap, as her sister did, but while she was stitching industrially, Anne had scarcely picked up her needle, her attention directed to the flames flickering in the fireplace instead of the fabric in her hands.

When she spoke, her voice had a soft, dreamy quality that made Mary shiver inwardly.

"It was years ago, before the King and I were married – just after Katherine was sent away." Anne smiled wistfully at the memory of the months immediately following the other woman's banishment from court. After so long spent living under the same roof as the woman who was steadfastly refusing to give up her claims that she was Henry's true wife, it had been such a relief to be free from Katherine's presence, and from the disapproving eyes of the ladies who attended her. With Katherine gone, Anne was Queen in everything but name, and few made the mistake of doubting that the title would soon be hers in truth, with many of the courtiers practically stampeding to her rooms to pledge their support to her, wanting to ensure that when she was Queen, she would think fondly of them and promote their interests. They were so happy in those days. How could everything have gone so wrong in such a short time? "I found it on my writing desk one day, after I came in from a walk with Henry."

"Found what?" Mary asked, puzzled.

"A book of prophecy – it wasn't really a book," Anne amended, seeing the puzzled expression on her sister's face. "There were three cards; one for the King, one for Katherine and one for me. My head was cut off." She chuckled humourlessly. "I didn't pay any attention to it at the time."

"You were right not to." Mary said firmly. "It was just somebody trying to frighten and upset you, that's all. It didn't mean anything, it's just a coincidence."

"Is it?" Anne asked bleakly, looking up to meet her sister's eyes. "Somebody wanted me to think that if I continued to come between Henry and the Princess Dowager, I would die for it. When we were riding in my coronation procession, somebody tried to shoot me – and when I was carrying Elizabeth! Last month, people accused me of adultery so that I would be executed to clear the way for that Seymour slut to take my place. It's not a coincidence, Mary, you know it's not. There are so many people who wanted to get rid of me, they can't all have given up on the idea, even after what's happened." Her eyes filled with tears but she bit down on her lower lip, hard, unwilling to allow them to escape. She couldn't be weak, even in front of her own sister. She had so many enemies lying in wait, eager for the opportunity to destroy her. She had to be strong if she was to have any hope of defending herself and her child against their malice. They clearly couldn't rely on Henry's protection any longer. "I never believed that Henry would be one of the people who wanted to see me dead, even when it got bad between us. I never thought that it would come to that."

"Anne..." Mary hesitated, unsure how best to frame her question. She didn't want to upset Anne and she certainly didn't want her sister to think that she was siding with the King in this matter but she also wanted to be fair to him, despite the temptation to believe the worst of him after what had happened. "Are you sure that the King... I mean, do you think that he wanted to see this happen? He set you free, after all, and proclaimed that you were innocent. Do you think it's possible that people like Cromwell were able to convince him that you were guilty and that he believed that you were when he made you stand trial?"

Anne snorted inelegantly. "I'm sure that he believed it. I'm sure that he _wanted_ to believe it. It would have suited Henry very well if I was guilty; he'd be able to marry his slut as soon as my head was cut off. Nobody would have been able to claim that the marriage was invalid if Katherine and I were both dead and he knew it. He never came to talk to me about it, and he wouldn't even listen to me when I tried to talk to him. He just accepted everything that Brandon and Cromwell told him, even though he knows that they both hate me. He knew that the nobles acting as judges at the trial would want to deliver the verdict he wanted. They weren't interested in the truth, just in pleasing their King and he has to have known that that would happen."

Mary nodded involuntarily. What Anne was saying made a great deal of sense. Once it became known that the King wanted to get rid of her, her verdict would have been a foregone conclusion and her trial nothing more than a formality, an utter farce of justice with only one aim in mind: her death, with the deaths of the men accused with her as collateral damage, innocent sacrifices to achieve the King's ends.

"He did put a stop to it, though, before it was too late." She reminded Anne tentatively, shuddering inwardly at the thought that, but for the King's intercession, her brother and sister would be dead by now. Of course, there would have been no need for his intercession if he had not allowed such foul charges to be laid against them in the first place. She couldn't forget that part.

"Because his conscience got the better of him and wouldn't allow him to go through with it." Anne stated flatly, scowling. "Even Henry wasn't able to keep convincing himself that I was guilty, when he knew how ridiculous the whole thing was. It doesn't change the fact that he let it go as far as it did in the first place, or _why_ he let it happen. I could understand it if Brandon and Cromwell had been able to put together a strong case, a case that was convincing enough to make Henry believe that I was guilty – it'd still hurt that he could ever believe that I would ever betray him like that but at least I would be able to understand why he believed it. But the charges were just nonsense, Mary, any fool could see that. Every commoner in the court could see that they didn't have any real evidence. They could see that it was just lies."

"But the King believed it."

"Because he wanted to. He wanted to believe that I was guilty so that he could get rid of me without having to have trial to investigate the validity of our marriage, after all the trouble he had when he wanted to dissolve his marriage to Katherine – though he was still planning on annulling it once I was gone so that he could declare Elizabeth a bastard," she added, her expression darkening with anger at the thought of Henry's greatest betrayal, "and because he wanted to believe it, he made himself believe it. He wouldn't talk to me because, deep down, he knew that I would tell him that I was innocent and that it was the truth. It wasn't what he wanted to hear. The truth didn't matter to him. All that mattered to him was what he wanted. He was willing to believe whatever they told him as long as it meant that he could get rid of me."

There was nothing that Mary could say. She set aside her sewing, moving to Anne's side and taking her sister in her arms, hugging her gently and wishing that there was something that she could say or do that would ease her obvious pain.

A couple of tears escaped from beneath Anne's eyelids but she brushed them away as quickly as they fell, as though she was ashamed to allow anybody, even Mary, to see her cry.

"I didn't believe the prophecy when I saw the cards." Anne said softly, more to herself than to Mary. "And if somebody had told me then – or even a few months ago – that Henry would ever be willing to let me die, I wouldn't have believed them. Even when he stopped loving me the way he used to, I never would have believed that he could hurt me like this."


	11. Chapter 11

**_4th June 1536_ **

It was disconcerting, to say the least, to know that some of the members of his own Council looked upon him with disfavour.

Henry had appointed both Thomas and George Boleyn to his Privy Council years ago, when he was so deeply in love with Anne and so determined to put her kin on his council, knowing that they would willingly help him achieve the annulment he desired, and he couldn't tell them that he no longer wished for them to serve in that capacity, not now. To do so would draw public condemnation on his head for punishing Anne's relatives, despite the fact that she and they were innocent of all the charges laid against them. He had asked Norris to serve on his Privy Council yesterday and regretted the decision almost as soon as he had asked the question. Norris would not meet his eye as he sat at the table but Thomas Boleyn met his eyes squarely, though without the slightest glimmer of warmth in his eyes.

He was glad that he had asked Knivert to join the Privy Council in Edward Seymour's place so that he could have a friend at the table who would act in his interests. He knew that Brandon would vow that he was a loyal friend, devoted to Henry's interests above all others, but the sombre expression on his face made it clear that he was not happy to be sitting at the table with the two Boleyn men, and his slight wince when Audley raised the subject of Cromwell's trial, asking Henry whether he was agreeable to the former chancellor being tried this month.

"Is it necessary to have the trial so soon, Your Majesty?" Brandon spoke up, although he knew that he could draw Henry's anger on his own head by doing so. He knew, as they all did, that the anger towards Cromwell over what had happened with Anne was still running high. The people wanted to see him made to pay the price for what he had done and his judges would be anxious to set the issue to rest as soon as they possibly could, to divert as much of the public anger about Anne's situation onto Cromwell's head and away from Henry's.

What hope did Cromwell have of a fair trial if most of the English people would love nothing more than to see him brought to the scaffold?

Brandon might not condone what the other man had tried to do but he had done it in England's interests, and because he sought to please Henry. Had he succeeded, Jane Seymour would be Queen of England now, and the Lady Mary would be returning to court with honour, welcomed as Henry's daughter, instead of in disgrace, and Brandon deeply regretted that this was not to be.

If there was any possibility that Cromwell could be shown some mercy, for the sake of his past service, Brandon hoped that it would be done.

"I think that it is, Your Grace." Henry said coldly, frowning reprovingly at him. "Justice must be seen to be done, and there is no sense in waiting. Master Cromwell slandered the name of our dear and entirely beloved wife, Queen Anne, and sought to bring about her death, and the deaths of good, loyal Englishmen." He nodded in George's direction at this but there was no answering smile or nod. "He must be made to pay the price for his crimes, before the people."

"I agree, Your Majesty." Boleyn said firmly, nodding his approval and casting a malicious glance in Brandon's direction. "And I am surprised to hear my Lord of Suffolk suggest otherwise."

"I didn't mean that…" Brandon began to protest but Henry waved for him to be silent, frowning at him, so he subsided, inwardly praying that Henry would not take him to task for his words later.

"Master Cromwell will be tried for high treason, and Lady Rochford for perjury, before the end of the month." Henry directed. "You will see to the arrangements, Sir Thomas." He instructed Audley, who inclined his head in response to the order, immediately scribbling a few notes about what would be involved in arranging the trials. "There is also another matter, one of great personal concern to us," Henry continued. "Our beloved daughter, the Princess Elizabeth – we are aware that there are still some foolish, wrong-minded people who persist in slandering the Princess as illegitimate, and who wish to see the bastard Mary proclaimed heir to the throne in her place."

None of the men at the table dared to argue with that. While it was undeniable that Anne's popularity had soared since her release, something that was making more and more people willing to accept her child as the legitimate heir to the throne, Mary still had her supporters, people who had never accepted the assertions that the young girl they had looked on as a princess for years and accepted as the heir to the throne was now nothing more than a bastard, with no more right to succeed to the throne than her young half-brother, Henry Fitzroy had had – if not less, since she was not a boy. There were many who would welcome the idea of Mary being restored as heiress presumptive, and who were reluctant to accept little Elizabeth in her place.

Brandon would have liked to believe that his friend, out of love for his eldest daughter and out of a desire for peace in the land, meant to have Parliament pass an Act restoring Mary to the succession but he knew better than to think that this was what Henry had in mind. He had made his position plain when he ordered Mary to come to Whitehall as Elizabeth's servant, and when he announced that he would not even be willing to see his daughter until she took the Oath of Succession and declared herself to be a bastard.

He would not willingly go back on what he had said by restoring Mary.

Henry glanced in Knivert's direction before he elaborated on his plan, smiling slightly at his friend, who had been able to see what he could not and to recognize that Anne needed to see tangible proof of his intention to see to it that she had no cause to feel concerned about their child's position. "It is our wish to bestow a title on Princess Elizabeth, to ensure that it is plain to every man, woman and child in England that she is our lawful heir." He announced, feeling pleased when he saw the surprise on Boleyn's face at his words. If Anne's father had not expected him to make this move, then he wouldn't have suggested the possibility to his daughter, so it would come as a very pleasant and welcome surprise for Anne to see what he wished to do for Elizabeth.

"What title does Your Majesty wish to bestow on the Princess?" Norfolk asked.

"Duchess of York." Henry answered, thinking it a very fitting choice.

He had not been much older that Elizabeth when his father bestowed the title of Duke of York on him, in response to the support that the pretender Perkin Warbeck was gathering in support of his claim that he was Prince Richard, the young Duke of York thought to be murdered in the Tower. Henry the Seventh was determined that the only Duke of York would be his son and so Henry, though he was only a little boy of three at the time, was carefully coached in protocol so that he could take part in the ceremony bestowing the title on him.

He liked the idea that the title would be Elizabeth's now.

To his surprise, he heard George Boleyn let out a derisive snort at his response. "My Lord Rochford?" Although he was annoyed, Henry's tone was one of enquiry rather than censure.

"What good is that going to do?" George asked bluntly, not troubling to frame his question more diplomatically out of deference to his brother-in-law's standing as King. "Duchess of York would be all well and good under other circumstances, but there was a time when the Lady Mary was called the Princess of Wales – and she still claims that title, even though she's been exposed as a bastard, and I'd lay odds that she has supporters who believe that this is her true title. If you give Princess Elizabeth the title of Duchess of York, Madam Mary and her supporters will be quick to point out that this is the secondary title, and to claim that Mary is still the Princess of Wales and therefore the first in line to the throne."

"Lord Rochford has a point, Your Majesty." Knivert observed quietly.

"Yes." Henry had not thought of that. He knew that Mary was a bastard, and he had taken steps to ensure that this would be made clear to his daughter and to everybody else in England but it was undeniable that the girl was stubborn, clinging to her former title rather than owning the truth, that she had no right to it, and that she had supporters who would champion her false claim. George was right that Mary and her supporters would consider Elizabeth being invested with the title of Duchess of York when Mary was given the title of Princess of Wales to be tantamount to an admission that he regarded Elizabeth as being second to her sister, though nothing could be further from the truth… but how could he prove them wrong, except by bestowing the title of Princess of Wales on little Elizabeth?

He didn't want to do that.

He loved Elizabeth very much and he wanted it to be clear to everybody that she was the heir to the throne but if he gave her the title of Princess of Wales, he would be saying that he didn't expect her to ever have a brother, one who would be Prince of Wales and the first rightful heir to the throne, ahead of his sister. He and Anne were both young, young enough to have other children once they were reconciled and resumed normal marital relations, so how could he give up the hope that there would be a son one day?

In five or six years time, if Elizabeth was still his only legitimate child, he knew that she would have to be granted the title of Princess of Wales, to highlight the fact that she would be England's next Queen, but surely it was too soon for him to give up hope of a prince.

If Duchess of York would not suffice in order to secure Elizabeth's status in the eyes of the world and to prove to Anne that he viewed their daughter as his heir, and if he could not give his little girl the title of Princess of Wales, at least not yet, what could he do?

"If I may, Your Majesty," Boleyn spoke up in a calm, even tone. Henry nodded to indicate that he wanted to hear whatever it was he had to say. "In my view, while it would certainly be an indication of Your Majesty's love and esteem for the Princess Elizabeth if she was granted the title of Duchess of York, perhaps a further measure is in order."

"What do you mean, my lord?" Henry asked curiously.

"By law, the eldest son – the eldest _legitimate_ son – of the King is entitled to the title of Duke of Cornwall, and by tradition, to the title of Prince of Wales," Boleyn began smoothly, "but there is no particular title that is reserved for the King's eldest legitimate _daughter_. Perhaps there ought to be such a title. Perhaps, in addition to the title of Duchess of York, a new title should also be devised; one for the eldest princess, and that title should be given to Princess Elizabeth as its first holder. In that way, even if the Lady Mary and her supporters attempt to claim that Duchess of York is a secondary title compared to the title of Princess of Wales, Your Majesty will be able to counter those allegations by pointing to the other title, showing that the Princess Elizabeth is your only trueborn daughter."

Brandon had always known that Thomas Boleyn was a shrewd, clever man but now he was seeing proof of that. His suggestion was a brilliant one; while there could still be debate over little Elizabeth's status if she was granted the title of Duchess of York – he imagined that even the Lady Mary would be willing to accept Elizabeth's right to that title, as the King had the right to make anybody a peer, whether they were legitimate or not – creating a title to be reserved for the exclusive use of the King's eldest legitimate daughter would eliminate those doubts.

Anybody who referred to Elizabeth by that title, whatever it might be, would essentially be agreeing that she was legitimate and that Mary was therefore a bastard, which was exactly what Boleyn wanted to ensure. Given Anne's newfound popularity, if she was able to keep the love of the people and to continue to encourage them to love little Elizabeth as well, the people would gradually come to look to Elizabeth as the true, rightful heir, while Mary would be nothing.

The support of the people was the chief consolation Mary had left and Boleyn wanted to see that taken away from her.

Brandon hoped that Henry would say that this was not necessary, that the title of Duchess of York was already a great honour for Elizabeth, especially given her tender age and her sex, and that she did not need another one but instead he saw Henry nodding his head, indicating that he approved of Boleyn's suggestion wholeheartedly, and looking around at his councillors for ideas about the form that the proposed new title should take.

"What do you suggest?"

* * *

Elizabeth was not a careless child, by any means, but she was still a young child and a very active one and, like many young children, she occasionally tore her clothes. However, given the size of the pile of mending in the basket at her side, Mary wondered if Lady Bryan was deliberately tearing rents in Elizabeth's little gowns and petticoats, and poking holes in the tiny silk stockings in order to ensure that Mary would have plenty of work to keep her occupied for the week when mending was to be her sole responsibility, and to be certain that she would feel the full effects of the punishment she had decreed for her.

She wouldn't put it past the governess to do something like that, and even though Anne was showering Elizabeth with so many new gowns that she would be plentifully supplied even if the garments in Mary's workbasket were thrown or given away, nothing less than perfect work would satisfy Lady Bryan's exacting standards.

She had already ordered one of Mary's neat repairs to be unpicked and redone, claiming that the work was sloppy and unsatisfactory, particularly for a princess' gown, despite the fact that Mary could see now flaw in her work, which was as careful as ever. She had not argued with Lady Bryan however, both because she knew that it would do no good if she did and because she didn't want the woman to know how irksome she was finding the punishment she was given.

If Lady Bryan knew, this would be the penalty she would choose every time Mary did something to displease her from now on and Mary did not want her to have the satisfaction of knowing that she had managed to find a weakness, as she would surely exploit it to the fullest extent if she discovered a chink in Mary's armour.

Her needle flew through the silken gown, mending the tear with tiny, near invisible stitches and Mary was so occupied with her task that it was a few moments before she realized that she was being watched by a pair of curious blue eyes.

Little Annie Stafford was looking up at her, her index finger in her mouth. "Who you?" She asked innocently, giving Mary a dimpled smile.

The toddler's likeness to her aunt was remarkable and, as a result, Mary's voice was somewhat cool as she addressed Anne's miniature and namesake. "I am Princess Mary." She said firmly.

Annie regarded her curiously for a moment before shaking her head, her black curls bouncing. "No." She stated positively, turning a little to point to Elizabeth. "P'incess." She said gravely.

Had the issue not been such a crucial one, an issue for which Mary had stood against her father for years, for which her mother had lived in poverty and isolation rather than yielding and winning herself a life of comfort and honour in exchange for her cooperation in denying her daughter's birthright, and for which good people had died, Mary might have smiled at the toddler's earnestness but the issue was a crucial one, with serious implications.

Annie Stafford was one of countless young children in England who were being taught that Elizabeth was a princess and Mary was a bastard, children who would be taught that Anne Boleyn was the rightful Queen of England while Katherine of Aragon – if she was mentioned to them at all – was nothing more than the woman who had lived in sin with her husband's brother for years before the "truth" was discovered.

In twenty years, those children would have reached adulthood and started families of their own and, unless their parents were especially brave, willing to take the risk of teaching their children the truth so that they did not grow up with the mistaken belief that her father's marriage to Anne was valid, they wouldn't know any better than to think that Elizabeth was the rightful heir to the throne, and they would support her and teach their own children to do so.

In twenty years time, Mary would be closer to forty than to thirty, almost past the age of bearing children, if it wasn't already too late for her. Her father would arrange no marriage for her as long as she continued to defy his demands that she proclaim herself to be a bastard and, even if she yielded to his will, the suitor he chose for her would be an ordinary gentleman, one who would never be acceptable to the people as King Consort, further cementing her sister's support.

In contrast, Elizabeth would be in her prime, a lovely young woman, wife to a prince, if her father was able to find a monarch who was willing to allow his son to be wed to a bride of such questionable legitimacy, and perhaps a mother by now – a much more attractive candidate as heiress to the throne than Mary would be.

If her father lived another twenty years, or even fifteen, he would almost certainly be able to secure the throne for Elizabeth. If he lived another ten years, there was still a good chance that he would have built up enough support for her among the people to allow him to bypass his true, legitimate daughter in favour of his bastard by his Concubine, especially if Anne continued to be popular and well-liked by the people, buying their love with her charitable distributions.

It was wicked of her to think such things, and treasonous to imagine her father's death, but Mary couldn't help but think about what would happen to her if her father lived to old age.

If Chapuys had heard her thoughts, Mary was sure that he would tell her that she need have no fears on that count, that even if the people could be duped into accepting Elizabeth as heir, the Emperor could commit his armies to conquering the country on her behalf and placing her on the throne, as was her right... but Mary couldn't bring herself to believe that he would keep this promise, even if she was prepared to allow him to wage war on her behalf, at the cost of countless lives. He certainly had never interceded on her mother's behalf in that manner, even when the way she was treated was putting her health at risk, and as soon as she was dead, he had made overtures to Mary's father, declaring himself willing to support his marriage to Anne.

Mary could not count on the Emperor.

If she wished to safeguard her rightful inheritance, it was up to her to do it. Nobody else was going to intercede to do it for her.

She met Annie Stafford's eyes, setting aside her needlework for a moment so that she could give the toddler her full attention. She touched her chest lightly, so that Annie could have no doubt about who she was speaking of. "Princess Mary." She stated firmly, though she kept her voice low, so that the other ladies of Elizabeth's household would not be able to hear her. She pointed to Elizabeth, who was having her hair combed by Lady Bryan. "Lady Elizabeth." She told Annie in a soft but authoritative voice. "Not Princess. Lady Elizabeth."

Annie looked puzzled for a moment, as she tried to work out what Mary was saying but then she shook her head vehemently. "No." She said, her voice ever bit as firm as Mary's. She pointed at Elizabeth. "P'incess." The tiny finger then jabbed in Mary's direction. "No P'incess."

"What is going on over here?" Lady Bryan asked, hearing Annie and hurrying over to the toddler's side, taking one of Annie's little hands in hers. "What are you doing, Lady Mary? I doubt that you have finished all of your mending already, and if you have, I am sure that other tasks can be found for you. I have told you before that you will not be allowed to be idle here."

"I have quite enough to do, thank you, Lady Bryan." Mary replied coldly, wishing that she could slap the hateful woman. Had her mother been alive, she would have counselled her to have patience and to obey her father and those in whose charge he placed her in all things not touching her conscience but her mother had never had to deal with Lady Bryan.

Annie tugged on Lady Bryan's skirts to get her attention, and then she pointed at Mary. "No P'incess." She said, though her tone was a little less certain this time.

Lady Bryan's expression became very grim when she realized what Annie was talking about and she frowned darkly in Mary's direction before responding to the child. "No, my dear, you are right – she is no Princess." She told Annie, patting the dark curls. "That's just the Lady Mary, and you're a clever girl to know when she is telling you wicked fibs." She praised Annie before turning to scowl at Mary. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, girl, confusing a little child like that with your lies." She scolded, motioning for another of the ladies to usher Annie away, as though being in such close proximity to Mary might contaminate the toddler. "You can be certain that His Majesty will hear of this." She warned before she swept away.

Mary tried not to feel apprehensive at the threat. She reminded herself that her father was no fool, and that he must surely know by now that she would not tamely accept being deprived of her rights. He was also a man who could appreciate spirit and courage... though not necessarily when they were being employed against him. She felt worried about how her father would react when her show of defiance was reported to him, as it undoubtedly would be – Lady Bryan would waste no opportunity to make trouble for her, in order to make it plain what her new status would be.

Surely he would not seek to make her position _worse_... or would he?

Being Elizabeth's maid-in-waiting was bad enough but Mary wondered if her father might be capable of deciding that this position was not degrading enough to break her rebellion and that he might decide to put her to work elsewhere in the palace, relegating her to the role of a lowborn drudge instead of the comparatively honoured position of maid-in-waiting.

She sewed in silence for a few moments before Elizabeth's excited voice intruded on her thoughts.

"When is my Mama coming?" She asked Lady Bryan, bouncing in excitement at the thought of a visit from Anne. "I want to see her."

"Soon, Your Highness." Lady Bryan promised, before glancing at Mary with a disapproving sniff, wondering whether it would be better for her to order the girl to leave the nursery and to continue her sewing in the chamber she shared with the other maids.

She didn't want to have Mary there if Queen Anne was going to take offence at her presence, or if Mary was going to behave rudely but, at the same time, she wad certain that Mary would love nothing more than to be able to escape the nursery and her supervision for a while. She certainly doubted that any work would be done if Lady Mary was left unsupervised. However, before she could make her decision and issue her orders to Mary, she heard the sound of approaching footsteps and the cries to make way for the Queen and the decision was taken out of her hands.

Anne was in the room a moment later and Elizabeth dashed into her arms, giggling in delight as she was swung around. "Hello, my precious, darling girl." Anne greeted, kissing Elizabeth over and over again, hugging her close. "How are you?"

"Well." Elizabeth told her, wrapping her arms around her neck and hugging her tightly. "I'm glad to see you. Very glad."

"So am I, sweetheart."

Mary felt a lump in her throat as she watched the two together, remembering how her own mother had once held her in her arms and showered her with the same affection that Anne was now lavishing on Elizabeth. When Anne played with Elizabeth, did she ever allow herself to think about another mother and daughter, a woman and a girl who loved one another deeply but who were forced apart for the sake of Anne's ruthless ambition? Did Anne ever feel remorseful about the fact that she had kept them apart for so many years, not even allowing a death bed visit? Did she ever think about how easily she and Elizabeth might have been the ones parted forever, as looked likely to be the case when Anne was arrested?

She had heard the rumours about Anne being a witch and part of her was sure that they were through. When Anne's gaze fell upon her, she felt as though the woman could hear her thoughts and she instinctively lifted her hand, ready to make the sign of the Cross, but let it fall.

Anne's expression was not unkind as she looked at Mary. "Good morning, Lady Mary." She greeted her calmly, the slightest hint of warmth to her tone.

"Good morning, my lady." As Anne had addressed her directly, Mary had no choice to reply but she deliberately refrained from addressing the woman by the title of Majesty, to which she had no true right. Mary's father had chosen to bestow the title of Marquess of Pembroke on Anne, as was his right if he so chose, so Mary would willingly observe the courtesies due to that rank but she knew that Anne was not so foolish that she wouldn't recognize the significance of her choice of title.

To her surprise, instead of correcting her and demanding to be addressed as one would address a Queen, Anne didn't quibble over Mary's choice of a title for her but that didn't surprise Mary as much as the glimmer of sympathy that softened Anne's eyes as she looked at her for a few more moments, looking as though she wanted to say something more but decided against it, returning her attention to little Elizabeth, who was clamouring for her mother to tell her a story, with Annie eagerly seconding her cousin's request.

Anne was sitting on a couch near the fire, with Elizabeth sitting on her lap and Annie nestled close to her, telling the two little girls a story about King Arthur, when Henry entered the room.

He acknowledged the greetings and curtsies of Lady Bryan and the other maids-in-waiting with a quick smile but he avoided even glancing in Mary's direction, determined to stick to his resolve not to acknowledge her or to single her out for any attention until she proved willing to give up her obstinate rebellion and behave like a good, dutiful daughter ought to.

He crossed the room to Anne's side, swinging Elizabeth up to kiss her and patting Annie's head before he bent down to kiss Anne's cheek. From her chair, Mary noticed that, although Anne did not pull away from the kiss or vocalize an objection, she flinched almost imperceptibly when Henry's lips touched her cheek, as though the kiss was a blow rather than a caress.

"I'm sorry to interrupt your story, sweetheart," Henry apologized, giving Elizabeth a smile. "It sounds as though it's a very exciting one."

"It is." Elizabeth confirmed, beaming at her mother. Mama told the nicest stories!

"I need to borrow your Mama for a little while, to talk about something important – it's about Elizabeth." He told Anne, before she could refuse to accompany him. She might not be eager to speak to him, by any means, but he knew that if what he had to say concerned their child, she would want to hear it.

"I want to hear!" Elizabeth piped up at once, curious to know what her Papa wanted to say to her Mama. "Tell me too, Papa!"

Henry hesitated. He would have preferred to get Anne alone so that he could tell her the news privately but when Elizabeth made a request, he found it difficult to refuse her anything she asked of him. As well as that, he could sense Mary's eyes on him, following his movements and he could imagine the mournful look on the girl's face as she watched him, just as he could imagine that she was saying a silent prayer that he would turn around and acknowledge her in some way.

If she wanted to be acknowledged, she knew what she had to do.

He had made the mistake of being soft with the girl before, when he left Hatfield after a visit with his darling Elizabeth and saw his elder daughter standing on the balcony overlooking the courtyard, her eyes dark with sorrow and pleading with him to show her some sign that he recognized her and cared for her.

When he travelled to Hatfield, he had had no intention of visiting Mary and acknowledging her; she had been sent to wait on Elizabeth so that she would learn her place and it was important that it was made clear to her that, until she learned that place, she could not hope for her royal father's love and affection. However, seeing her there, he was unable to keep himself from looking up at her and bowing. It was a courteous gesture, one that he might have made to any lady, but because he was the King, the gentlemen in his retinue had hurried to follow his example and pay their respects to Mary, who had clearly taken this slight acknowledgement as a sign that, if she held out long enough, her defiance would be rewarded with his capitulation.

It was past time for her to learn that she was mistaken.

It was past time for her to recognize that, although she was his daughter and although he was willing to acknowledge her as such, she was not a princess. She was a bastard and she had no rights, only whichever favours he chose to bestow upon her, out of his kindness. If she would be his obedient, loving daughter, she would find him to be affectionate and generous towards her but if she insisted on being disobedient and disloyal, she would get nothing from him.

He was half-prepared to instruct Lady Bryan to dismiss Mary from his presence while he spoke with his wife and with his _legitimate_ daughter but he changed his mind.

Perhaps it was best that she should hear this.

He lifted Elizabeth up so that her face was level with his own. "I have a very special surprise for you, my Elizabeth." He told her, smiling indulgently at her unabashed delight at his words.

"What is it?" Elizabeth asked eagerly. If her Papa's voice was any indication, he had a treat ready for her and, although she had been given lots and lots of presents by her Mama already, she would always be eager to accept another one. "Is it a nice surprise?"

"I hope that you'll think so – and you, sweetheart." He added to Anne. He sat down on the couch next to Anne, holding Elizabeth on his lap and reaching out to take Anne's hand in his before she could try to move further away from him. Although his words were ostensibly addressed to Elizabeth, Anne was the one who truly needed to hear them. "I want to show everybody how much I love my lovely, clever little princess, my jewel of all England," he explained to Elizabeth, who beamed at the compliments, "so I've decided that you shall have a new title."

Elizabeth's face fell. "But I like being a princess!" She protested, remembering what she had heard some of her ladies say when Mama was away, about how she might not be allowed to be a princess any more and could be made a bastard instead. "I don't want to be a bastard!"

"Who told you something like that?" Henry demanded angrily. He noticed that Lady Bryan, and several of Elizabeth's other attendants, averted their eyes, clearly unwilling to meet his gaze, and he sighed. He shouldn't be surprised that gossip had spread through the court like a wildfire following Anne's arrest, or that people had wondered about their daughter's status, given the shadow of disgrace hanging over her mother. It was part of the reason why he was so determined to clarify the issue, once and for all. He felt Anne's hand stiffen in his at the word 'bastard' and he swore inwardly. He still had a long way to go with her. "You're not going to be a bastard, sweetheart, you can never be a bastard – you are my trueborn child, the daughter of the Queen." He reassured Elizabeth, who nodded comprehension. "And you will always be a princess. Papa just wants for you to have another title as well, one that will show what a special little girl you are and how much he loves you."

"Oh." Elizabeth thought that sounded nice. She looked across at her Mama to see what she thought about what Papa was saying and she was relieved to see her smile at her. If Mama thought that this was good news, Elizabeth was sure that it was. "What's my new title?"

"When I was a little boy – not much bigger than you are now – my father, your grandfather, decided that I was big enough to have a special title of my own." Henry explained. "He gave me the title of Duke of York, and I want you to have that title now, so you'll be the Duchess of York. It means that you'll have estates of your own, in York, and those estates will give you an income of your very own." He explained. Although he knew better than to think that this part would mean much to Elizabeth, it would reassure Anne that he intended to see to it that their daughter was secure and well-provided for.

He heard a small sound coming from Mary's direction, and he frowned, thinking that it was an indication of pleasure. It seemed that George Boleyn was right when he suggested that Mary might take the fact that he was bestowing the title of Duchess of York on Elizabeth as an indication that she, who pretended to the title of Princess of Wales, outranked her half-sister.

If that was what Mary thought, he intended to disillusion her.

"There's more, my precious." He told Elizabeth, stroking her fair hair. "This was your Grandpapa's idea, and I think that it's a splendid one. If you had a baby brother, he would be called the Prince of Wales to show that he was the oldest son but your Grandpapa reminded me that there should be a special title for the King's eldest daughter – or his eldest _legitimate_ daughter." He added pointedly, knowing that Mary was listening and wanting to make sure that he made his point perfectly clear to her.

"Will I be the Princess of Wales?" Elizabeth asked, her eyes wide at the thought.

"No, sweetheart." Henry answered at once. It would have made his message plain to Mary, so plain that she could harbour no illusions about her status, if he granted Elizabeth the title that he had mistakenly allowed Mary to hold before he knew the truth about his marriage to her mother and about her own legitimacy but he couldn't bring himself to allow Elizabeth to carry the title, not yet. He couldn't give up hope that there would be a son. "But your Grandpapa thought of an even nicer title for you, and it's a very special one. No other Princess of England has ever had this title. You'll be the very first person to have it."

"What is it? Tell me, Papa?"

For a moment, Elizabeth's eagerness reminded Henry of Anne's reaction when he had hinted at a special task that they would have to perform before they left for France, when he was planning on bestowing the title of Marquess of Pembroke on her, in her own right, and he felt a sharp pang of regret for those happier days.

Would they ever again be as happy as they were then?

"You're going to be known as the Princess Royal." He told Elizabeth, smiling for her sake, not wanting to spoil her pleasure at this exciting honour. "And as the Princess Royal, you'll have some more servants, and they'll wear a special livery, to show that they are your servants." At present, as Elizabeth had no livery of her own, the pages and servers who were part of her household wore Henry's livery, but it was fitting that this should change now that the little girl's status as heir to the throne was to be highlighted with her new titles.

"What colour?" At Elizabeth's age, this was a very pressing question.

Henry hesitated. He had not thought through the issue much, wanting to come to the nursery straight away to let Anne and Elizabeth know what he intended to do, and he had not considered the colour of the livery that the future Princess Royal's servants would wear. He masked his uncertainty with a wide smile. "I think that you should choose, sweetheart."

Perhaps leaving the choice in the hands of a toddler not yet three years old was not the wisest decision that he could have made but, when he saw Anne's involuntary smile at his words, he thought that, wise or not, it was the _right_ decision.

"Green." Elizabeth decided, without hesitation. "Green and white. Those are the Tudor colours, aren't they, Mama?"

"They are, sweetheart." Anne agreed. "And they'll look very pretty."

"Good." Elizabeth was pleased and she could see that Lady Bryan and most of her other ladies were pleased too, apart from Lady Mary – but Lady Mary was rarely happy these days, anyway.

"I'll have the designs made right away." Henry promised. He twined a lock of Elizabeth's fair hair around one finger. "And I think that you're going to need a special coronet, don't you?"

"And a new gown – lots of new gowns." Elizabeth added. Now that she was going to be Princess Royal as well as Princess Elizabeth, she was a princess twice over and she thought that it was twice as important for her to be beautifully dressed than it was before. She was a big girl now, and even more special than before.

"You'll have to talk to your Mama about that." Henry told her gravely, although he knew that Anne would probably already be planning the gowns she was going to have made for Elizabeth. He looked up at Anne, addressing her directly. "I think Elizabeth will need something special to wear for the ceremony. We should have it soon, don't you think – as soon as you like."

"Yes." Anne agreed quietly, smiling at Elizabeth when she crawled from Henry's lap to hers, hugging her tightly. She was not unaware of the importance of Henry's decision to bestow further honours on their daughter, nor was she unaware of why he was choosing now to do this. He wished to give her proof of his assertion that he loved their daughter and that he would never do anything to hurt her or to undermine her position as princess and heir.

She was glad that Elizabeth was to be honoured but she couldn't help but think about how Mary would react to her father's declared intention to bestow further titles on Elizabeth, titles that would make it plain that he recognized her as his sole legitimate child while he viewed Mary as a bastard.

Part of Anne wished that Katherine could have gone into a nunnery years ago, when the idea was first broached. If she had, the case for the annulment of her marriage to Henry would have stopped, and Mary would have been allowed to retain her legitimate status. Now, it was impossible to legitimise Mary without putting Elizabeth's position in doubt, and that could not be allowed.

Henry leaned over so that his face was level with Elizabeth's. "Do you think that it would be alright if Mama and I go to talk by ourselves for a little while?" He asked her gravely. "We need to start to make proper arrangements for the ceremony for your new titles."

"Yes." Elizabeth agreed readily enough, excited by the thought of a ceremony that would be just for her, where the whole court could see what a special princess she was. She hopped down from Anne's lap, tugging her hand until Anne stood, waiting expectantly for her to go with Henry.

Had the matter in question not concerned her daughter, Anne wouldn't have gone anywhere with Henry but, since it was for Elizabeth, she allowed him to take her arm and escort her out of the room. He bent down to kiss Elizabeth goodbye before they left, and ruffled little Annie's curls but he swept out of the nursery without glancing in Mary's direction, much less acknowledging her.

It was as if he didn't even see her.

Once they were outside the nursery, Henry paused, inwardly debating over whether he wanted to bring Anne back to her quarters or to his, wondering whether she would be more comfortable if their conversation took place in her rooms or if she would view it as an intrusion if he went there without being invited. His own rooms were closer, and less likely to have many people in them at this time of the day, so that decided the issue for him and he escorted Anne in that direction.

As he had expected, all but one of the grooms who tended to his chamber were absent when he got back to his apartment with Anne in tow. He dismissed the sole remaining groom, instructing him to see to it that they were not disturbed and, once they were alone, conducted Anne over to one of the chairs by the fireplace.

"I thought that we could have the ceremony soon, within a couple of weeks." He said lightly, instinctively thinking that it would be best for him to keep the conversation focused on Elizabeth, at least at first, until Anne was a little more comfortable in his presence. He thought that the ceremony for Elizabeth, and the accompanying public celebrations, would be especially welcome to the people if they took place shortly after Cromwell's trial and execution. It would show the people of England that their King and Queen were putting the whole ugly affair behind them, and moving on with their beautiful child. "Do you think that you would be able to order a gown for Elizabeth by then? I can see to the jewels, I'll have Holbein design them." He added, making a mental note to order jewels for his wife as well as for his daughter, as a surprise for Anne.

"I can have the gown ready in time." Anne confirmed. She already had a design in mind and, once she had sketched the gown and chosen the fabric, it would not take the seamstresses she patronized long to sew and embroider the tiny gown for Elizabeth.

"Good. Good." He repeated, feeling ill at ease around her. it was easy enough, when he was alone or with Knivert, to make plans for what he could do in order to make amends with Anne and to reassure her that he loved her and their daughter and would do nothing to harm them but, when he was face to face with Anne, those plans seemed so inadequate. "Princess Royal and Duchess of York for now," he mused aloud, "and Princess of Wales when she's older... if there's a need."

Anne nodded comprehension but didn't say anything.

Henry felt irritated by her silence. Even if Knivert was right that Anne wanted to see tangible proof of his intentions to secure Elizabeth's place as princess and as his heir, that didn't explain why she persisted in her cold silence when he was showing her that proof. Elizabeth was being honoured in a way that no other English princess was honoured before her – not even Henry's mother, Elizabeth of York had been given the kind of titles and honours that Elizabeth was getting now, even though she was dearly loved by both parents – and Anne was saying nothing!

What did she want from him?

Did she forget that he was her husband and her King, and therefore doubly her master?

He was not an especially patient man, though he was trying, under the circumstances, and Anne seemed to be determined to push his limits as far as she possibly could, even now when he was seeking to reassure her and to honour their daughter.

As Queen of England, it was Anne's duty to bear him a son, and preferably more than one. She was not even trying – she had not asked him to share her bed, as she had before, so how could she possibly expect to give him the son she had promised him all those years ago? Even if she no longer loved him as she once had, a thought that pained Henry more than he cared to admit, he was certain that they both had many ancestors who had married without love, viewing marriage as a sensible arrangement made for the mutual benefit of both parties. Lack of love had not prevented them from bearing thriving families of sons, so why should it keep him and Anne from doing the same?

England needed a prince, whether he was born from love, lust, indifference or even hatred.

"I think I shall come to your bed tonight."

He had not expected that Anne's reaction to the news would be one of joy. He would have loved it if it was, would have loved to see that, despite everything that had happened, she still loved him as she had before and still desired him, but he knew better than to expect to see her show pleasure at his announcement that he intended to assert his rights as her husband.

However, he had not expected her to react as badly as she did.

Anne did not voice an objection – perhaps she had been warned that any attempt on her part to deny him his conjugal rights could be used as grounds to end their marriage, if he so chose – she did not say a word. The colour drained from her face so rapidly that Henry thought that she was about to faint, and he even reached out to steady her, in case she began to fall from the chair. Her skin was cold to his touch and he could feel her trembling slightly, and hear her breathing becoming shallow and rapid. Her blue eyes were wide with fear.

He thought that, if he had announced that he intended to give her the beating Thomas Wriothesly had advocated or even if he declared that it was his intention to have her conducted back to the Tower to be beheaded then and there, she could not have looked more panicked.

Far from being something to be desired, the idea of sharing a bed with him filled her with terror.

How could he have done this to her?

"No," He said, more gently this time. "I will sleep in my own rooms tonight. We should wait." He moved his hand away from her, backing away a couple of paces to give her some space. She got her breathing and her trembling under control fairly quickly once she knew that she did not need to expect him to pay a visit to her bed tonight but she was still too pale for his liking. He moved across to one of the side tables, where a carafe of wine and several goblets were laid out, filling two goblets and carrying them over, passing one to Anne. "Drink that." He instructed briskly.

He probably should have apologized, he probably should have vowed that he would not seek to share her bed unless she first sought him out to invite her to but his tongue would not speak the words. The part of him that deeply regretted the terror that Anne must have endured while she was a prisoner in the Tower was in conflict with the part of him that maintained that he should not be blamed for the fact that he had trusted Cromwell, and that he had acted as any King in his position should act when he was told that his wife had committed adultery, just as the part of him that was appalled that he had distressed Anne with his announcement warred with the idea that, as Anne's husband, it was his right to share her bed if he wished to do so.

After everything that had happened, there was really only one safe topic for them to discuss, one issue that concerned them both deeply and one bond that they still shared.

Henry raised his goblet a little in salute, trying to smile. "To our daughter." He toasted half-heartedly. "To Princess Elizabeth, Princess Royal and Duchess of York." He did not expect to hear Anne respond but he was pleasantly surprised when she echoed his toast in a soft voice.

"To Elizabeth."

For now, it had to be enough for him.


	12. Chapter 12

**_4th June 1536_ **

Lady Mary Stafford's husband, Will, had been very understanding when she explained to him that, after everything that happened, her sister needed her at court. Another man might have objected to the idea of his wife and child travelling to London, especially when he had not been invited there himself. Another man might have pointed out that, given that Anne had refused to speak so much as a word in her sister's defence when Mary came clean about her secret marriage and her pregnancy, appealing to her for her help only to be banished from court in disgrace for no greater crime than marrying for love, Mary owed her nothing and did not need to drop everything in order to rush to court to help her – or that if she did go to court, she should ensure that she exacted some benefit from her journey, rather than lending her sister her assistance for no reward.

However, Will was a good man, one who did not harbour grudges, and who understood that, if Anne needed her, Mary could not refuse to go to her. Anne was her sister and he would not try to come between them. He had insisted that she should go, and stay at court for as long as she needed or wished to, that he would be able to manage their small estate in her absence.

She was lucky to have so understanding a husband. Mary had never ceased to be thankful that she had met him and fallen in love with him. He was not a rich man, and he was not a man of noble pedigree and, when she married him, she was aware of the fact that there would be those who would think that she was a fool to marry a poor soldier instead of taking advantage of her status as sister to the Queen of England and making a match with one of the wealthy noblemen who were then so eager to ally themselves with the Boleyn family but, as far as she was concerned, she could not have made a better choice.

What other man would have married a woman who bore the ignoble nickname of the 'Great Prostitute', known to be the lover of the King of France and suspected of being the lover of the King who was now her brother-in-law, and never reproached her for her past or even alluded to it?

What other man would have married the Queen of England's sister but never even thought of the advantages that such a match might bring him, never put himself forward for favour or hinted that she should petition Anne for a pension or estates, preferring to make his own way in the world rather than making himself the dependent of his wife's powerful family?

What other man would have shared her concern for Anne when they first heard word of their trial, worrying about her for Mary's sake and praying for her, the only help he had the power to give her, even though he had never met Anne?

Mary had a husband she loved and she considered herself to be far more fortunate than many of the ladies at court, ladies whose marriages had been the subject of negotiation for their families and the families of their husbands, who cared only that the marriage contracts were watertight and that the marital alliances were mutually advantageous for both families, giving little or no thought to the question of how the couple would get along together as man and wife once the ceremony was concluded, not caring whether they would learn to love one another and be able to enjoy a union of mutual respect and affection, or whether they would come to loathe one another, trapped for life in a loveless union.

She was certainly far more fortunate than her younger sister.

Anne was the Queen of England and, as such, the highest lady in the land but last month, her husband had ordered her to be arrested and confined to the Tower, eager to listen to allegations made by men he knew to be his wife's enemies because he wished to be rid of her as quickly and as easily as possible so that he might replace her with the prim, sly wench who had caught his eye and passed herself off as a sweet and virtuous maiden in the hopes of supplanting Anne, not caring if she achieved her aim at the cost of Anne's life. Mary almost wished that Jane Seymour was still at court; she would have scratched her face to ribbons, given half the chance, and the bitch would never have caught the King's eye, or the eye of any man, ever again.

When it first became clear to the court that the King intended to set Katherine aside and make Anne his Queen in her place, Mary was conscious of the fact that she attracted curious, sometimes pitying looks from courtiers on the rare occasions when she visited the court, and she knew well that they were whispering about her behind her back, wondering if there was any truth to the rumours that she was once the King's mistress, and whether she resented the fact that, while she had been discarded just as easily as she was taken up, her younger sister – acknowledged by many to be the less pretty of the Boleyn girls – might become Queen, or if she would try to win the King's attention away from Anne so that she might have a chance at the crown herself.

Mary had not envied Anne the King's love then, and she did not envy her lot now.

Considering the state her sister was in, she felt that she had had a lucky escape when the King tired of her and she shuddered to think what her life would be like if he had decided that he wished for her to be his Queen, if she was enduring the pain that Anne now endured. She was happily married, missing Will's company even after a relatively brief separation, while Anne was so badly affected by what had happened to her over the past month that she dared not sleep without surrounding herself with her ladies, for fear that she might be accused again if she did not take every precaution to ensure that nobody would ever again be able to claim that she had a lover.

When she was with Elizabeth, Anne was cheerful and animated – or at least managed to seem that way, for the sake of her adored child, who had been badly upset by the matter, despite her governess' efforts to shield her from the knowledge of what was happening – but outside the nursery, she was a ghost of her former self. She was so quiet, even when she was in her own apartment, the rooms that should have been her sanctuary, in the company of ladies who should have been her loyal friends and servants and Mary was troubled by it.

She could remember what Anne was like as a child, when she kept their nursemaids and governess at Hever on their toes with her mischief, charming her way out of trouble more often than not, or during their girlhood in France, when she fascinated and enchanted the French court with her wit, style and skill at music and dance, or when Anne was a young woman at the English court, the acknowledged favourite of the King who was, for a brief time, a lovely, confident and beloved Queen before things started to go so terribly wrong.

She could scarcely believe that the woman now lying in her great carved bed, surrounded on all sides by ladies sleeping in cots, was the sister she once knew.

Anne had offered her a luxurious chamber near her own apartment but, although Mary had gladly accepted the offer that little Annie should share Elizabeth's nursery and the care of her attendants, she opted to sleep in Anne's chamber instead of in a room of her own, so that she could be close to her sister. Anne's self-imposed restrictions meant that she now had three ladies sleeping around her bed at night, and Mary preferred to be one of those ladies; if she was, she could at least be confident that Anne had one friend with her, instead of somebody who might be willing to gossip about her to other courtiers and, if Nan Saville and Madge Shelton were also there, they could keep Anne surrounded by friends, people she could trust.

When she heard the sound of quiet crying, muffled by a pillow until the soft sobs were barely audible, Mary was on her feet in an instant, laying one hand on her sister's back while she stroked her hair with her other hand, hoping to calm her. To their credit, if Nan and Madge were awake, neither of them gave any sign of it, as they undoubtedly knew that Anne would be mortified if she realized that her ladies, even her most trusted ones, had heard her crying.

"Come with me, Anne." Mary instructed her sister in a whisper, gently tugging Anne to her feet and making her step over the empty cot on the right side of the bed, the one Mary had occupied. She kept her arm around her shoulder as they walked into the outer chamber, where the fire had almost died down since they went to bed. After laying a couple of logs on the dying fire to revive it, Mary fetched fur-lined wraps for both of them and, once they were both wrapped up warmly against the night time chill, she sat down with her sister on the couch, keeping her arms around her as she cried, although she didn't say anything at first, even when Anne's crying became louder, verging on hysterical.

In her opinion, Anne needed the release of weeping. She could understand why she needed to preserve a calm facade for the benefit of the court, and that it could be damaging for her if she allowed others to see just how distressed she was by everything that had happened, for fear that they might seek to use any hint of weakness against her, but she couldn't keep her unhappiness bottled up forever. Sooner or later, it would have to come out, for her own sake.

"Do you want to talk about it?" She asked softly after several minutes, when Anne's crying began to taper off. "Did something happen today?" She knew that Anne and the King had spoken today, and since Anne had not said a word about what they had spoken about, she was worried, afraid that he had said or done something that would make matters worse.

Once, Mary had loved the King – or at least thought that she did. He was a handsome man, and his attention had been very flattering to her, even more so than the attentions of King Francis. She felt as though no man would ever compare to him and was devastated when his affection for her cooled and he ceased to invite her to share his bed. Now, however, she was furious with him and, but for the fact that Anne would be worse off if her husband died, as her enemies would be all too delighted to champion the Lady Mary as Queen in little Elizabeth's stead, she would wish that he could break his neck the next time he took a tumble from his horse.

After all he had done to Anne, he deserved no better.

"Henry said that he's going to give Elizabeth new titles; she'll be the Princess Royal and Duchess of York." Anne said after a long silence, wiping cold tears from her cheeks.

"I heard about that." The tongues of the court gossips had been wagging about that all day, and Mary, like everybody else, had heard of the King's plans, as well as the speculation about what this would mean for the King's two daughters. It was generally acknowledged that this was further proof that the King intended to back little Elizabeth as the heir to the throne, and to do whatever it took to see to it that his people accepted her as such, while the Lady Mary was to continue to be nothing more than a royal bastard, and one who was out of her father's favour at that. She had spoken briefly of it with her father, and knew that he was very pleased about it, to know that there was not yet any serious cause to be concerned that the King might choose to favour Katherine's daughter over Anne's. "But that's good news, sister," she pointed out gently, "you can't expect me to believe that you are unhappy about it. What else happened?" She smiled ruefully. "I don't think I've seen you this upset since you were eight and Papa caught you riding his best hunter."

Anne returned her smile, remembering a simpler time, when her worries were comparatively trivial. Nearly twenty years ago, waiting in the nursery for the arrival of her angry father and knowing that she could expect a severe spanking from an unsparing paternal hand was a fate terrible enough to reduce her to tears but it could not compare to waiting in the Tower and knowing that she could expect to be brought to the scaffold within a matter of days.

Her father was afraid that she would fall and hurt herself if he didn't ensure that she would never dare to ride his hunter again, for fear of his chastisement if not for fear of the animal. Henry would have been happy to see her break every bone in her body if she fell from her horse, as her death would leave him free to marry Mistress Seymour.

"He said that he was going to share my bed tonight." She said, almost matter-of-factly.

"The King?" Mary asked incredulously.

"Who else?" Anne countered wryly.

"But it's only been..." Mary trailed off; Anne already knew how brief a time it had been since she was released from the Tower, her good name cleared and her life spared, without any further reminders. She couldn't believe what she was hearing. It might be a husband's right to share his wife's bed whenever he wished but, under the circumstances, the King could have given Anne more time before he suggested such a thing, instead of making matters worse by pushing her. "Did he change his mind?" She asked gently, rubbing her sister's shoulder. Since she, Nan and Madge were to spend the night sleeping in Anne's bedchamber, it was safe to say that Anne was not expecting the King to put in an appearance – unless, of course, she hoped that their presence would make the King rethink his intentions if he stopped by her apartment tonight. Anne nodded. "That's something, at least."

"I think he knew that I didn't want him to come tonight." Anne mused aloud. Whatever else Henry was capable of – and he had proven to be capable of deeds she could never have imagined him to be capable of – she didn't think that he would ever force himself on her, regardless of whether or not the law would be on his side. The side of him that could be gentle and tender would shrink from forcing himself on her by violent means while his pride would balk at the idea that he would have to force her, instead of having her willingly choose to lie with him. "He said we'd wait." She gave a low, humourless chuckle. "It's not that long ago that I would have been thrilled to know that he wanted to come to bed with me. Before the trial, after..." she swallowed, unable to speak of her miscarriage aloud; it was still too painful to think of the baby boy she had lost, the baby boy who could have made all of the difference to her if he had lived, "He never came to my bed, even though he was being almost kind to me the rest of the time."

With hindsight, she realized that Henry's show of friendship had, in all likelihood, been intended to lull her into a false sense of security, to make her believe that the immediate threat to her marriage, in the aftermath of her miscarriage, had passed and that Henry's anger towards her had faded, enough so that he would defend her position and say no more about their marriage or about his words about how he believed that God would not grant them male children.

He must have wanted to ensure that she wouldn't suspect that he intended to find a means to be rid of her, as soon as he possibly could, so that she would not know that her position was in jeopardy until it was too late. If he was able to catch her by surprise, then she would not have had time to either consult with a lawyer or theologian to find a way to prove that her marriage was valid, and she wouldn't be able to appeal to King Francis, in the hope that the prospect of having somebody like Jane Seymour, whose family were known to favour the idea of an Imperial alliance, would be enough of an inducement to get him to help her. Even Francis' consent to allow Elizabeth to be betrothed to the Duke of Angouleme would have helped strengthen her position.

It would have shown Henry that there was still hope that their marriage would be accepted, and that their son would be accepted as legitimate, if he gave her a chance to bear him one.

Henry had intended to see to it that she would not learn what he had planned until it was too late for her to be able to defend herself or their child from the proceedings.

Any sign of kindness, or of a willingness to reconcile was not for her sake, it was for Mistress Seymour's, so that the slut's path to the throne would be made as smooth as it could possibly be. If it would make it easier for him to place the Queen's crown on the wench's head, he was prepared to behave cordially towards Anne, and even to demand that the Emperor recognize her as Queen, though he fully intended that, by the time the Emperor could answer his demand, she would have been replaced by a lady that the other monarch would be more willing to accept.

However, he had not shared her bed because he was unwilling to take the chance that they might conceive another child, a child who would have protected Anne as long as she carried it, and for the rest of her life if it was a healthy son.

If Anne had become pregnant, then Henry's desire for a son would have taken precedence over everything else and he would not be prepared to allow anybody to question the validity of their union or even to investigate the possibility that it might be flawed in some way, in case she presented him with a fine little son whose legitimacy and rights as heir to the throne he could never allow anybody to question. No matter how he thought he felt about Jane Seymour, he would never contemplate giving up his chance of a legitimate son for her sake.

Even Henry was not so besotted as to think the wench was worth that.

"It's understandable that you're not ready yet." Mary said kindly, thinking that, in Anne's place, it would be a long time before she was willing to allow the King to come near her, if she was ever willing to live with him as man and wife again. "It's good that he's going to wait."

"He's trying to make things right." Anne acknowledged. "That's why he's giving Elizabeth her new titles, and why he made Mary come to court to wait on her and why he's going to keep pushing her to take the Oath until she finally gives in. Before I was arrested, he was being kinder to her, much kinder than he was since Elizabeth was born. He gave orders for her removal from Elizabeth's household when she was ill, for her comfort, and he was even considering removing her altogether, and letting her have a household of her own, or maybe to welcome her back to court – Papa told me." She explained when she saw the quizzical look on her sister's face and knew that Mary was surprised to think that Henry would tell her if he intended to honour Katherine's daughter. "Henry never said a word to me about it, except to tell me that I shouldn't be thinking of Elizabeth's betrothal before Mary was settled. Now, he's called Mary to court as a servant and he won't even see her, because he thinks it will please me if he ignores her."

"Does it please you?" Mary asked. Although she had known Anne since the day she was born, there were times when her sister was unreadable and Mary didn't know how she felt about her stepdaughter, the young girl who was a living reminder of Katherine, for Anne, for the King and for many of the courtiers, and whose insistence that she was the King's only legitimate child and heir, the rightful Princess of England, was tantamount to a declaration that Elizabeth was a bastard.

That the Lady Mary was a threat to Anne and Elizabeth was undeniable but she didn't know how Anne would feel about the King's method of neutralizing that threat.

"I don't know." Anne responded honestly, feeling sickened that she couldn't give a definite answer in the negative. She shouldn't want to see a young girl, one who had lost a great deal and whose only fault, if one could call it that, was her determination to defend the position that she saw as hers by rights, along with her mother's good name, suffer more than she had already. She shouldn't want to see her put in a position that she would find humiliating, treated like a humble servant when she was once the Princess of Wales, or to see Henry reject his daughter because he thought that it was what she wanted to see but she couldn't help feeling relieved that he was siding with Elizabeth. "It will help Elizabeth if he makes it clear to everybody that she's his heir, and I want to know that she's safe but it's hard to see the way he is with Mary now... how he'd be with Elizabeth if I was dead. Except that it would be worse for her. She wouldn't have people speaking for her. The Seymours would only be interested in working to help the Lady Mary. Elizabeth would be taught that she should feel ashamed to be my daughter, and that I was a whore and a traitor who deserved to die."

Elizabeth was so young, and such an intelligent child that Anne could imagine how hurtful it would be for her to be rejected by Henry and treated as though she was tainted by her mother's blood.

"But Elizabeth's safe now, Anne, and so are you." Mary reminded her gently. "The King's not going to dare to put you on trial again – not even if you actually do something wrong! – and he's going to have to defend his marriage to you." For a man without the King's pride, he could annul his marriage if he really wished to, as long as he was willing to admit that his previous marriage was valid all along, but he would never be prepared to humble himself like that or to admit that he was wrong to set Katherine aside. She doubted very much if the idea of doing so would ever occur to him. "You don't need to worry about Elizabeth being mistreated. You will be Queen and Elizabeth will always be a princess. She will never have to act as anybody's servant, like Lady Mary did, and the King will never allow her to be called a bastard, not now."

"I know." Anne said quietly. "But that doesn't change the fact that he was going to, does it? No matter what he's doing to make sure that people see Elizabeth as his legitimate heir, it doesn't change the fact that, a few weeks ago, he was the one that wanted to make her a bastard. It doesn't change the fact that the only reason he was doing it was so that he could hurt me as much as possible before he sent me to my death. How can I forgive him for that?"

"I don't know." Mary answered honestly. "Do you want to forgive him?" The King could make all the efforts he could think of to win Anne over but, at the end of the day, his efforts were doomed to failure unless Anne was willing to contemplate the idea of forgiving him, of trying to put the past behind her and to move on, trusting him and even loving him once more.

"I don't know."

* * *

**_13th June 1536_ **

His trial was nothing more than a farce, a formality at best and a show for the crowds at worst.

Cromwell was no fool. As soon as Brandon had told him that he was to be charged with high treason, he knew that he would be found guilty and that he would be sentenced to death. The King had decided to make him his scapegoat and he would be determined to place as much of the blame on him as he possibly could, in the hope that if he could offer up Cromwell as a sacrifice, they would be satisfied that somebody was being punished for what had happened to the Queen they had only recently begun to respect or appreciate, and they would no longer blame him.

As he was on trial for high treason, he was not entitled to any counsel to speak in his defence and he was not entitled to be forewarned about the evidence that would be used against him, or the identity of the witnesses who would testify as to his guilt. He had nothing to rely on save his own wits and his knowledge of the law, and he knew that even those would not save him.

He had pleaded guilty when the charges were first read to him.

There was no chance whatsoever that he would be acquitted, he knew that much, but he clung to the hope that if he confessed his guilt openly, if he admitted to having procured false evidence against the Queen so that she would be brought to the scaffold, if he shouldered all of the blame himself and never said a word against the King, never indicated that he only did what he did because he thought that it would please him to be provided with such a perfect reason to rid himself of an unwanted wife, that his former master might be grateful to him for deflecting the blame from his own head and might be prepared to show him some mercy.

That hope had proved to be a vain one.

As a convicted traitor, he was sentenced to death at the King's pleasure and Master Kingston had broken the news to him last night that today was to be his death day. Master Cranmer had come to hear his last confession and give him absolution for his sins, so that he might quit this life with a clean soul, compassion and pity mingled with anger over Cromwell's betrayal of Anne, the great hope of their reformation, warring in his features.

Cromwell had confessed his sins and spent the night in prayer.

He was brought a plate of meat, cheese and bread and a cup of ale with which to break his fast shortly after dawn. His meat and bread were already cut for him and he was not provided with a knife, for fear that he might take his own life and cheat the headsman of his fee, as Cardinal Wolsey had years ago, when he fell from grace and believed himself to be past saving.

Back then, Cromwell had felt scornful towards his former master for his actions, deeming them to be not only sinful but cowardly as well, especially when all hope was not lost for him. As angry as the King was with the man who had once been his closest and most trusted advisor, Cromwell had believed Henry when he said that Wolsey had lived and he had considered the cardinal a fool to take his own life when, if he had waited, and humbly yielded himself to the King's will, apologizing for his offences, his life would have been spared. He might not have had any chance of being restored to his former power and glory but he could have walked away a free man.

Now, he could understand the despair that had driven Wolsey to take his own life and, if his jailers had provided him with a knife, the temptation to take his own life would have been a strong one.

He was no coward. He might have clung to hope at first but when the King sent no message of pardon, and did not reply to the letter he had sent him, reminding him of his past years of loyal service and pleading for mercy for the sake of that service, he knew that he was going to die and he accepted that. However, the thought of having to go out before the crowd that were already gathering, already crying out for his blood, and kneeling before the block to await his death blow, knowing that there would not be a soul in the crowd who was sorry to see him die, was a prospect daunting enough to make him wish that he could take his life himself, privately and on his own terms instead of waiting for somebody else to dispatch him.

But he didn't have a knife.

All he could do was sit there, listening to the crowds calling out their furious demands to see the man who had almost sent Queen Anne to her death lose his own head. They must have been so disappointed to hear that his sentence was to be commuted to beheading, and that he was to be spared the more brutal means of execution usually employed for commoners.

Lady Rochford had confessed to the lesser crime of perjury and, as her life was to be spared, they would be doubly eager to see him die.

Because of his former high position in the King's service, Cromwell was given a small, private cell instead of being lodged in the dungeons and before his jailers entered, they knocked, in deference to the fact that their prisoner was once Lord Chancellor of England and vice-regent of spiritual matters, and waited for him to call for them before they would enter.

When he heard a knock on his door, his heart thudded wildly in his chest but his voice was calm and measured when he spoke. "Enter."

Master Kingston's expression was sombre when he entered, and he inclined his head respectfully before he spoke the words Cromwell was expecting. "It is time."

**_15th June 1536_ **

Her new gown was even prettier than she imagined it would be.

Elizabeth had asked her Mama, over and over, to let her see what her new gown would be like but Mama insisted that it was to be a surprise, promising only that she would make sure that it was very pretty, pretty enough so that everybody would be able to see what a beautiful princess Elizabeth was. Mama's own dressmakers had measured her for it and then they made the gown secretly, and only Mama was allowed to see it before it was ready.

When Elizabeth woke up this morning, her new gown was carefully laid over the back of a chair, right beside her bed where she could see it, and as soon as she ate her breakfast and had a bath so that she would be nice and clean for the ceremony in her honour, Lady Bryan and some of her maids-in-waiting had helped her into her gown, carefully combing her hair and dressing it with pearls, so that she would look her best on her special day.

Ignoring Lady Bryan's gentle admonitions to be careful of her gown and not to be vain, Elizabeth twirled around the room, holding her skirts out so that she could admire the sheen of the ivory silk, and the intricacy of the gold embroidery embellishing it. Her petticoat was of gold damask, as fine as any of the gowns her Mama ever wore, and she was very pleased with herself when she surveyed the finished effect in her looking glass.

"It's a beautiful dress, isn't it, Lady Bryan?" She demanded of her governess.

"Very beautiful, Your Highness." Lady Bryan agreed with an indulgent smile, shaking her head at her small charge's vanity.

Since Elizabeth was old enough to have formed her own decided opinions about what she wished to wear, she had had a love of finery and jewels, one that the Queen indulged shamelessly. She couldn't remember Queen Anne visiting Hatfield without bringing rich garments for her child, among the other gifts that she lavished on the little girl, and since her release from the Tower, now that she and Elizabeth were living under the same roof for the first time since Elizabeth was a tiny baby, she showered gifts on her on a daily basis, ordering so many new garments for her daughter that Lady Bryan was certain that Elizabeth would have outgrown half of them before she had a chance to wear them.

It was understandable, under the circumstances, that the Queen would want to indulge her daughter, Lady Bryan thought as she watched Elizabeth admire her new gown. The governess was very aware of how fortunate she was that she was still Lady Governess to the Princess of England, soon to be the Princess Royal, instead of the guardian of a little royal bastard. Had Queen Anne been executed, her child would soon have been banished from court and from her father's sight. The supply of beautiful, rich clothes would have dried up with Queen Anne's death and Lady Bryan would have to pray that the allowance she was supplied for the child's upkeep – if she was supplied with one at all – was sufficient to dress her according to her station and her royal blood.

Who could blame a mother for spoiling her child a little, when they had come so close to being parted forever?

Because she was so aware of how easily Elizabeth could have lost everything, Lady Bryan couldn't bear to be too stern with her in trying to curb her vanity, as she might have under other circumstances, with another child, not when the little girl had had such a lucky escape from banishment and disgrace.

"It's a beautiful gown, for a beautiful princess." She told Elizabeth, and her compliment was rewarded with one of the little girl's widest, sunniest smiles.

"Thank you, Lady Bryan." Elizabeth beamed, delighted with herself.

Her new gown hadn't been her only lovely surprise this morning. When she woke up, she saw that her attendants weren't wearing their usual black tunics. Instead, they wore splendid new livery in green and white, the colours that Elizabeth had picked out. She wasn't the only one to have a new gown either; although Lady Bryan was wearing her customary black gown, all of Elizabeth's maids-in-waiting were wearing new gowns, of spring green damask with white taffeta petticoats. The gowns had a Tudor rose embroidered in gold on the bodice, and a gold crown embroidered over it.

Lady Bryan told her that this was a way of showing that they were now in attendance on the Princess Royal, which made them even more important than they were when they served the Princess Elizabeth.

Elizabeth was happy that her ladies were to be allowed to be more important than they were before, especially the Lady Mary. The Lady Mary had not been happy since she came to court, which was very strange because Elizabeth knew that it was a very great treat to be allowed to come to court, especially for the Lady Mary, who was not permitted to come before because she was always disobedient and rude to Lady Bryan. Perhaps Mary would be happy now that she was to be allowed to serve the Princess Royal, which made her very special.

"Do you like your new gown, Lady Mary?" She asked when her half-sister knelt before her to fasten her tiny silk slipper to her foot. "I think it's very pretty, and it looks very, very nice on you." Elizabeth privately thought that the green gown looked much nicer on the Lady Mary than the black gowns she usually wore did, although she knew that it would be very rude of her to say such a thing aloud. Mary seemed to like black very much, since she always wore gowns and caps of that colour, but Elizabeth thought that it made her look very serious and very pale.

Black was for old ladies, like Lady Bryan, not for young ladies who were pretty, like Mary.

"Yes, it's very pretty, sister." Mary responded automatically. She could sense Lady Bryan's frown at the way she had addressed Elizabeth, omitting the honorifics that were demanded on the child's behalf, but not even Lady Bryan could object to Mary, the King's acknowledged daughter, referring to Elizabeth as her sister. Once Elizabeth's slippers were on her feet, Mary rose. Her curtsey to her little sister was little more than a flick of her skirt and a slight inclining of her head, and she would not have done even that much if she was not well aware of the fact that an outright refusal to do so would have Lady Bryan sending messages of complaint to her father about her defiance as quickly as she could summon a page to carry it to him.

Since she had arrived, he had not deigned to speak even one word to her but she could easily imagine that he would not be slow to make his displeasure known if he knew that she was defying his express commands that she was to accord Elizabeth all the dues of a Princess of England, and she did not want their first exchange in years to begin in such a manner.

When Lady Bryan had presented her with her new gown this morning, Mary was humiliated to find that there was a part of her that was deeply thankful for this. It had been a long time since she had been supplied with an allowance for her clothes, and in that time, her gowns began to show signs of long wear, despite her efforts to take care of them and to mend them as neatly as possible when they were torn. Next to the other girls, all of whom were better provided-for than she was in terms of their dress allowance, she knew that she was starting to look decidedly shabby, as though she was a menial servant instead of a maid of honour.

To be presented with new gowns, made from rich cloth and of a pretty colour, was very welcome to the part of her that gloried in fine clothes and yearned for the days when she was the Princess of Wales and the adored darling of her parents, a time when nothing was too good for her and she had the best of everything, but the embroidered symbol on the bodice of the gown, the crowned rose representing Elizabeth's status as the Tudor princess, made her wish that she could throw the new gowns away and wear her black gowns instead, until there was nothing left of them but rags.

Today, her father intended to bestow the title of Princess Royal on Elizabeth.

Had he simply made her the Duchess of York, granting her only one title instead of two, it would have been bad but not unbearable. While it would have been a clear sign that Elizabeth was favoured by their father as a princess while she, Mary, was regarded as nothing more than a bastard, the King had the right to ennoble anybody he chose. He had made his bastard son, Henry Fitzroy, the Duke of Richmond and Somerset so Mary could have accepted it if he made Elizabeth the Duchess of York, consoling herself with the fact that she had been granted a greater title, that of Princess of Wales, and that the people would still know who their true princess was.

With the title of Princess Royal, it was different.

That title was to be created for the use of the King's eldest legitimate daughter and, as such, it was Mary's by rights. If her father and Anne could make people think of Elizabeth as the Princess Royal, it would better enable them to convince the people that Elizabeth was the King's trueborn daughter and, as such, the rightful heir to the throne, while Mary was nothing but a bastard and a pretender, claiming a title that she had no true right to.

They were determined to see to it that Elizabeth was accepted as heir, and they would put on a show for the people to make them believe that this was the case, dazzling them with pageantry and jousting and providing lavish banquets in the child's honour, to buy the people's love on her behalf. If it was possible to make people forget about Mary, they would manage it. They would keep her hidden away from the court and from the people, locked up in the nursery until she finally yielded and took the Oath, giving up her fight for her rights.

Mary didn't want to think about what might happen if her father grew impatient with her refusal, and decided that he would never be able to make her submit to his will.

Would he be prepared to consent to her murder if it meant that he could keep the throne safe for Elizabeth and win his way back into Anne's good graces?

Mary didn't want to believe that it could be possible. She had to believe that her father's love for her would keep her safe, that he would never consent to the idea of anybody murdering his own flesh and blood, no matter how much she angered him by refusing to give in and take the Oath, the one thing he asked of her in exchange for a restoration to his good graces and the one thing that she could never give him.

Once little Elizabeth was ready, Mary watched Lady Bryan survey her charge with a proud, affectionate gaze. Like Lady Salisbury, who was Mary's governess until the King sent orders that her household at Hatfield was to be disbanded, Lady Bryan was devoted to the child entrusted to her care. She was proud of the fact that she had been charged with the care of the King's child, of the so-called princess, as any lady in her position would be, but she also cared for Elizabeth for her own sake and Mary thought that her pride in the child was almost grandmotherly.

Satisfied that Elizabeth was ready, Lady Bryan turned her attention to the maids-in-waiting, surveying them with an eagle eye, scanning their gowns for wrinkles or, worse still, stains, and making sure that their French hoods were straight and that nobody had a hair out of place.

She nodded, indicating that they had passed her inspection. "Very nice, ladies." She told them approvingly. "I believe that we are all ready." She smiled down at Elizabeth. "And I'm sure that there will be many, many people who are anxious to see Princess Elizabeth. We must not keep them waiting, must we? Lady Mary," her voice became sharp as she addressed Mary. "His Majesty the King has commanded that you are not to be permitted to attend the ceremony today, as you cannot be trusted to behave. You will wait in your chamber until we return."

"Yes, Lady Bryan." Mary responded, trying to keep the sullenness from her tone.

Had she attended the ceremony elevating her little half-sister, she was certain that she would have been called upon to carry Elizabeth's train as the little procession made its way to the dais, where the King would be waiting to bestow the new titles on the child he insisted on calling his legitimate heiress.

At Hatfield, she was frequently commanded to carry Elizabeth's train, even when Elizabeth was just a baby, and Lady Bryan's demeanour always indicated that she believed that Mary should consider it a great honour that she should be permitted to do so, as though she truly was a bastard who ought to be grateful for the slightest show of recognition from the royal family. Although she was thankful that she was not to be forced to endure the indignity of performing the task before the court and the common people, Mary was aware that there would have been certain advantages if she had had to attend Elizabeth during the procession.

If she was there, then the people would see her.

If they saw her, Mary was sure that they would not be pleased to see the young girl they had called their princess for so long forced to carry the train of the child who had usurped her position, made to walk behind her as though she should think herself honoured to be allowed to walk in Elizabeth's shadow. They would have cried out against the idea of their Princess Mary being humiliated in that manner, insisting that she should be the one honoured today, not little Elizabeth, and even if her father did not cancel the ceremony and rethink the idea of bestowing the titles on Elizabeth, at least he would know how his people felt about the situation. At least he would know that his people saw Mary as their true princess and that they would never willingly accept Elizabeth in her place.

But he and Anne were far too clever to allow that to happen.

Instead, they would keep Mary shut away, out of sight and, as they almost certainly hoped, out of mind. They would show Elizabeth off, as if she was the true Princess of England, the King's only daughter, and trust in the child's beauty and her considerable charm to help her win the people over and make them forget about Mary, as though she had never existed.

Lady Bryan led the procession, holding Elizabeth's small hand in hers, and the other ladies followed, two by two, all of them eager for the ceremony and for the celebrations they knew would take place afterwards.

Mary was left alone in the nursery, forgotten as soon as the door closed behind them.

* * *

When Henry first decided that he would have a full ceremony to mark Elizabeth's new titles as Princess Royal and Duchess of York, instead of simply sending out proclamations to let the people know that his daughter was to be honoured, he had had some concerns about whether or not Elizabeth was old enough to know how to behave herself during the ceremony but, thankfully, those concerns had been groundless.

Elizabeth might still be a few months shy of her third birthday but she had the intelligence and the grace of a much older child and, between them, Anne and Lady Bryan had seen to it that she was carefully coached in proper behaviour, so that she would comport herself as a princess should, as the people who watched the ceremony would expect to see her act.

The Duke of Norfolk's daughter, Anne's cousin Lady Mary Howard, had been honoured with the task of carrying Elizabeth's train – an honour that would have been Mary's, had the girl been sensible and admitted that she was a bastard instead of clinging to a lie – while Henry's nephew, Lord Edward Brandon, carried a plump red velvet cushion on which the dainty jewelled coronet Henry had commissioned was set, ready to be placed on Elizabeth's head at the right moment. Two of Elizabeth's ladies followed, bearing the mantle of purple velvet and ermine.

"Make way for Princess Elizabeth! Make way for Her Highness!" At the herald's cry, the people in the Hall parted, clearing a path between them to allow the little procession to pass.

Elizabeth kept her back straight and her head high as she walked, as a princess should, bestowing beaming smiles on courtiers and common people alike as she made her way down the path to the dais. Even from his throne, Henry could hear the approving murmurs and see the wide smiles on people's faces as the toddler made her solemn procession to the dais. However they felt about him, about Anne or about Elizabeth's legitimacy and right to the title of Princess, it would have taken somebody with a heart of stone to resist her charms. She enchanted them all.

He heard more than one person remark on the likeness between Elizabeth and Anne, and he had to admit that it was unmistakeable. Elizabeth had been blessed with her mother's features and, more than that, with the grace and the charm that made Anne so captivating. When Elizabeth was a grown woman, she would be a true beauty, one who would be able to effortlessly enslave the affections of her courtiers and her subjects alike. They would love her, no matter what she did, with the same devotion that Henry had once cherished for Anne.

His wife was sitting at his side and he stole a glance in her direction, feeling absurdly pleased to see her unfeigned joy at the proceedings, and at the sight of their daughter.

Anne was a beautiful woman but, when she smiled like that, she was a goddess, Aphrodite come to Earth to bless them with the radiance of her presence. When his Great Matter was in progress, when he had to fight against a reluctant pope to get him to recognize his case, and to put pressure on a reluctant cardinal to get him to proceed with the trial and to pronounce a favourable verdict, Henry had sometimes felt a nagging doubt about whether he ought to be doing this, especially as he couldn't help but be aware of the pain that it was causing to Katherine, who was a good woman, even if she was stubborn, and of what it would mean for Mary if he succeeded.

One smile from Anne was enough to convince him that he was doing the right thing, reassuring him that, whatever price he had to pay for them to be together, it would be worth it.

He would have sacrificed his kingdom for an hour in Anne's arms.

He would have torn the Earth itself in two for a smile.

It was a long time since he had seen that smile, not since after Elizabeth was born, when Anne apologized to him for bearing a daughter in place of the son she had promised him. She pretended, and she pretended so well that few would have thought that her smile was insincere but Henry, who had seen the radiance of Anne's true smiles and grown accustomed to that, could not be deceived by the glister of false gold and he could see that even when Anne's lips curved in a smile, there was always a hint of unhappiness or wariness in her eyes, almost as if she was unsure whether it was safe for her to be happy... but, if he was honest with himself, he had to admit that he hadn't given her much to smile about these past few years.

Now that he could see her smile again, he remembered how much he missed it and he was happy to see it, even if that smile was directed at Elizabeth rather than at him.

He was glad that he hadn't hurt her so badly that she was no longer capable of that joy.

When Elizabeth reached the foot of the dais, she curtsied gracefully but her heavy gown kept her from kneeling. Henry smiled at her as he listened to the Garter king at arms read out the patent.

"To all and singular nobles and gentills here present, let it be known that Elizabeth, the right high, right excellent and noble Princess of England, the most dear and entirely beloved daughter of our dread and gracious sovereign lord, King Henry the Eighth is, by order of His Majesty the King, today created Duchess of York and Princess Royal."

Henry lifted the jewelled coronet from the cushion Edward Brandon held and set it gently on Elizabeth's head. He had warned the goldsmith who crafted it to ensure that it was light enough for a small child of Elizabeth's age to wear comfortably and he was pleased to see that his orders had been followed. The diamonds that studded the little gold coronet winked in the sunlight streaming through the windows as Henry took the mantle from his daughter's attendants and draped it around her shoulders. Once that was done, he knelt down to his daughter's level to kiss her ceremoniously on both cheeks, laughing when Elizabeth broke with protocol to put her little arms around his neck and give him a smacking kiss on the cheek, a gesture that prompted amused, indulgent murmurs from the people watching and that pleased Henry very much.

He rose, gently turning Elizabeth so that she was facing the assembled crowd, and laid his hands on her shoulders as he addressed them. "My people, allow me to be the first to present to you Her Highness the Princess Elizabeth, Princess Royal and Duchess of York." A ripple of warm applause greeted his announcement and Elizabeth, beaming, bobbed a grateful curtsey in acknowledgement of it, clearly delighted by the attention that was being bestowed on her. Henry bent down, lifting Elizabeth carefully so that he did not dislodge her coronet or rumple her mantle, and he kissed her on the cheek again. "Congratulations, my precious sweetheart." He told her warmly.

She hugged him again. "Thank you, Papa."

Anne rose from her throne, standing beside him and reaching out to stroke Elizabeth's hair, smiling widely as she kissed their daughter's soft cheek. "I'm so proud of you, sweetheart." She told Elizabeth softly. "You look so beautiful – my little princess." Elizabeth gave her a sunny smile, leaning closer to Anne so that she could hug her too. "I love you so much." Anne said in a whisper, her words meant for Elizabeth's ears alone, though Henry could hear them too.

With a final kiss for Elizabeth, Henry set his daughter on her feet, laying a gentle hand on her back. "There's to be a joust now, sweetheart, in your honour – which means that you will be the one to hand out the prizes to the winners." Although the role was traditionally reserved for the Queen, Anne insisted that this was Elizabeth's day and she should do the honours.

Elizabeth bounced excitedly at this announcement, dignity forgotten, and it took very little coaxing from Lady Bryan to convince her to let her governess take the heavy mantle from her shoulders, so that she would not be encumbered by it when they went out to the jousting field. The coronet she refused to part with. Henry imagined that poor Lady Bryan would have trouble persuading her charge to take it off when the time came for her to go to bed. She certainly wasn't going to be able to coax Elizabeth into allowing it to be removed before then.

He indicated with a wave of his hand that the courtiers might make their way to the jousting arena, instinctively deciding to dispense with ceremony for the moment, rather than obliging Anne to take his arm and allow him to conduct her there at the head of a formal procession.

To his surprise, once the Hall was cleared and he was ready to make his way to the jousting field himself, he felt a soft hand take his and he turned to see Anne looking at him.

"Thank you for doing this for Elizabeth."

Her smile was a small one but it was a real one, and it was for _him_. Henry could feel his heart swell at the sight of it.

Maybe it wasn't too late for them.


	13. Chapter 13

**_28th June 1536_ **

Henry had half-expected that, with Anne cleared of all charges and restored as his Queen, and with little Elizabeth's legitimacy confirmed, along with her status as Princess and as heiress to the throne, while any suggestion that Mary's bastard status would be altered had been summarily dismissed, even if the Emperor took umbrage at the way his attempts on his cousin's behalf were rebuffed, it would not be long before King Francis sent instructions to his ambassador to make enquiries about the possibility of a lasting friendship between their countries, forging an alliance between England and France against the Emperor.

The Emperor and King Francis were currently in conflict over Milan and as they were at odds, England's friendship would be important to them both. It would tip the balance of power between them, depending on which side Henry came down on but, while the Emperor's pride meant that he deemed it an insult to his family that his aunt was discovered to have lived in sin, while his cousin and his one-time betrothed was declared illegitimate and rendered ineligible to succeed to the English throne, King Francis had no personal stake in the Great Matter, and no true objection to the idea of recognizing Anne as Henry's true wife and as England's rightful Queen.

The question of whether or not he was willing to accept Anne as Queen, and to recognize little Elizabeth as the rightful heiress to the English throne would be decided by policy, and by practical considerations without the situation being muddied by sentiment or pride. If he wanted an alliance, he would accept Anne, and he would do so cheerfully, as he knew that she was a friend to France and somebody who had no cause to love the Emperor. If it was not in his best interests to accept her, he would refuse to do so. Either way, the decision would be one of policy, unlike those of the Emperor with regard to the matter.

Henry was able to intercept some of Chapuys' dispatches to the Emperor and knew that the Imperial ambassador was bombarding his master with news about what was happening in England and with Mary in particular. The dispatches Henry read before copies were made and they were sent on to the Emperor all stressed the hardship that Mary was enduring as a servant in Elizabeth's household – though Chapuys was not honest enough to admit that Mary was bringing those hardships on her own head with her treasonous disobedience and that she could improve her situation with a gesture any time she wished, nor did he acknowledge that an obstinate fool deserved scant sympathy for the price she was paying for her own stubbornness and folly! – and the honours that were being heaped on Elizabeth, and of the influence that Anne was exerting over the King in order to convince him to treat his eldest daughter cruelly, denying his fatherly love for Mary and allowing her to be poorly treated to please Anne.

He implored his master to continue to press for Mary's restoration as Princess of Wales and as the legitimate heir to the throne as a matter of urgency, stressing that it was imperative that he should ensure that Mary was removed from Elizabeth's household, at the very least, as soon as possible, claiming that the indignity of having to wait on her half-sister was doing great harm to Mary's health and urging the Emperor to demand that she be treated with honour as the King's daughter, rather than scorned and humiliated as a servant for Anne and Elizabeth's sake.

Henry's jaw had tightened as he read the ambassador's description of his darling Elizabeth as 'the little bastard', while the kindest term Chapuys used for Anne was 'the Concubine', the term he was too much of a coward to use openly, to her face or to Henry's. In public, he referred to Anne by her proper title as Queen, and to Elizabeth as Princess, according them the honours due to their positions, at least when he was in a position where he could not avoid doing so but, in the privacy of his correspondence, he slandered them.

He also took umbrage at the implication that, but for Anne, he would be willing to turn a blind eye to Mary's disobedience instead of punishing her for it as she deserved, that but for Anne he would welcome Mary to court and honour her as his daughter instead of obliging her to wait on her half-sister, at least until she gave up her stubbornness and took the Oath.

Anne had never said a word to him about Mary. She barely said a word to him about _anything_ these days and she had certainly never indicated that it was her wish to see Mary summoned to court so that she could resume her duties as one of Elizabeth attendants. She never mentioned the girl. Even before her arrest, there were times when Henry thought that Anne was not comfortable with the idea of Mary being permitted to live under the same roof as Elizabeth, and Henry had appointed his elder daughter as maid-in-waiting to his younger without consulting Anne.

He had made that decision freely, just as he freely decided to summon Mary to court and to oblige her to resume her duties in attendance on Elizabeth, whether she liked it or not, knowing that Mary had to learn her true place in the world and could no longer be pampered when she refused to obey her father and her King. He did not like to think that the Emperor would read those words and believe that he was a man under the thumb of his wife, incapable of making a decision without fretting over how Anne would react to it, and tempering his actions to her whims.

No woman would ever be able to dictate how he treated his own child, and no man either, not even the Holy Roman Emperor.

Chapuys was not a stupid man, so he must know that his reports were false.

He was a supporter of Mary's, one who longed to see her recognized as a legitimate princess once more and he must think that, if he could make his master believe that Henry could be persuaded to restore Mary as his legitimate heir instead of being honest with him and letting him know that Henry would never contemplate the idea of restoring the obstinate, disobedient bastard, not even if the Emperor continued to press him to do so, he could ensure that the Emperor would continue to insist on Mary's restoration as part of any alliance, pressuring Henry on her behalf.

At first, Henry was tempted to send for Chapuys to make it plain to him that, whatever he or the Emperor thought, he knew that Mary was illegitimate and he would not pretend otherwise. Even if his love for his daughter made him wish to see her honoured as one of the highest ladies in the land – and, if restoring her as a princess proved to be impossible or impractical, there was no reason why he could not ennoble her, making her a peer in her own right; he had set that precedent when he gave Anne the title of Marquess of Pembroke – he would never be prepared to do anything to improve Mary's position until she admitted that she was a bastard and took the Oath, acknowledging Anne as her Queen and Elizabeth as the rightful heir to the throne.

He would not reward her stubbornness and disobedience by allowing her to escape signing the Oath, something that she was required to do as an English subject, or to avoid obeying her father, which was her duty as his daughter, and nobody, not even the Emperor, would ever be able to force or bribe him to do so.

The Emperor might think that Henry was desperate for an alliance with him, so desperate that he would go against his conscience by acting as though he believed his union with Katherine to have been valid all along but he was not the only monarch in Europe with whom Henry could make an alliance and the sooner he accepted that, the better.

However, if Chapuys knew that Henry could intercept his letters, he would devise a new means of smuggling them out of the country, and Henry preferred to know what the ambassadors at his court were reporting back to their masters, so that he would be better equipped to deal with both the Emperor and King Francis.

Unlike Chapuys, the French ambassador was polite to Anne when he saw her, and when he paid his respects to her, Henry believed that he was genuine, at least as much as any ambassador ever was, instead of doing it purely out of policy. It was even possible that Anne might have known the ambassador before, when she was a girl serving as lady-in-waiting to Queen Claude in the French court. Henry was pleased to grant his request for an audience, though not so pleased that he forgot the importance of treading carefully, or that it was unwise to take any offers at face value.

He agreed to the suggestion that a treaty of friendship should be drawn up between the two countries, uniting them against the possibility of aggression on the Emperor's part, an agreement that would be valuable for them both; King Francis and the Emperor were already in conflict, and Henry could not dismiss the possibility that Katherine's nephew might choose to renege on his commitment to recognize Anne as Queen of England, opting to wage war in order to put Mary on the English throne as a pretender, one whose friendship and loyalty he could be certain of. When the question of a marriage to seal that alliance was raised, however, Henry was wary.

"My master, the King of France, wishes to stress his great love for Your Majesty," the French ambassador said, smiling as though this caused him great joy personally – and perhaps it did; an ambassador whose home country was on friendly terms with the country in which he was stationed was always treated with great honour and favour, and usually richly rewarded by both kings. "There was some discussion before, I believe, about the possibility of a marriage between my master's youngest son, the Duke of Angouleme, and Your Majesty's daughter, Princess Elizabeth – I beg your pardon, the Princess Royal." He amended, using Elizabeth's new title.

"There was." Henry did his best to keep his tone carefully neutral but he could not keep a slight frown from crossing his features at the memory of how that had turned out.

To begin with, he had not entirely liked being the one to petition King Francis about the possibility of Elizabeth being betrothed to one of his sons, instead of waiting for Francis to be the one to come to him to broach the idea. Being the one to ask put him in the position of a supplicant, in a sense, leaving him with no choice but to wait to see if the other monarch would deem Elizabeth to be an acceptable bride for his son, or if he would insult Henry with a rejection, as though the first legitimate daughter of the King of England was not good enough for the youngest son of the King of France. However, even though he disliked having to do so, Henry was realistic enough to know that, given the situation regarding his marriage to Anne and the fact that the validity of their union, along with the legitimacy of their daughter, was questioned by some, he was going to have to be the one to propose a betrothal. He couldn't afford to wait for Francis to come to him.

But he would not soon forget the way Francis had behaved towards him.

At first, he allowed Henry to have hope, indicating, through his ambassador, that the idea was one that he would be prepared to consider and even sending the Admiral of France to England with the express intention of negotiating the match. The preparations made to receive the Admiral were extensive, with no expense or trouble spared. Henry wasn't going to take the slightest chance of losing this betrothal, one that was so essential to the future of his adored little daughter, by offering anything less than the finest hospitality his court could muster but their guest was difficult to please from the beginning, shunning the banquet and tennis match Anne had arranged in his honour and opting to stay with the Brandons at their home far longer than intended instead of coming straight to court where the King and Queen of England were waiting to receive him.

When he finally deigned to grace the court with his presence, he found fault with everything, right down to the wine he was served at dinner, his patronizing attitude grating on Henry's nerves.

Henry was not a patient man, as a rule, or one who was blessed with an abundance of diplomacy but he was unwilling to jeopardize the betrothal that would act as confirmation that France accepted that Anne was his Queen and Elizabeth his legitimate child and heir, so he put up with the Admiral's rudeness, even managing to laugh at his slights over the wine instead of snubbing him for his conduct. As tiresome as the Admiral's behaviour was, Henry did not forget why he was here and he knew that it would be worth it once the seal was set on Elizabeth's betrothal. It would be a triumph for him, for Anne and for Elizabeth, a signal to the Emperor that Henry had the support and friendship of the King of France, and was not a man to be trifled with.

Once the betrothal was formalized, both the Emperor and the Bishop of Rome would know that there was at least one monarch in Europe who was willing to accept the truth, and to recognize that, whatever Katherine claimed, England had only one Queen and it wasn't her. They would know that they would not get away with calling Anne a concubine any longer.

Then the Admiral told him that Francis was no longer willing to consider the match.

He had been relatively diplomatic about it at first, certainly far more diplomatic than he was about the meal they had eaten or the entertainments they watched, but his meaning was plain. Francis was unwilling to commit to a marriage between one of his sons and a bride whose legitimacy was not accepted by the Emperor or by the Bishop of Rome because, for all his show of friendship to Henry, for all his indications that he welcomed the idea of Anne becoming Queen and that he would wish to support their marriage he was not prepared to side with Henry against them, especially when his relations with the Emperor were a bit more peaceful than usual at the time.

Hhe did not want to jeopardize that tentative peace by implying that, as he accepted Elizabeth as legitimate, he viewed the Emperor's cousin as a bastard.

It would have been bad enough if Francis had contented himself with that but he went a step further. The Admiral had blandly informed Henry, as though it was a great concession, that although Elizabeth was not acceptable as a prospective bride for the Duke of Angouleme, Francis would be prepared to consent to a betrothal between Mary and the Dauphin, even daring to threaten to marry the Dauphin to the Emperor's daughter if Henry would not consent to allow Mary to marry him, a marital alliance that would isolate England politically and leave Henry vulnerable.

With the offer for Mary's hand, Francis placed himself on the side of the Emperor and the Bishop of Rome, against Henry, and Henry could not mistake his intentions.

He and Anne quarrelled later that night, and he had taken his anger over the failure of the marriage negotiations and his bitterness over Francis' betrayal out on Anne.

When she took him to task over the young woman he had spoken to on his way to fetch the Admiral's secretary, so that he might be presented to her, and when she went on to press him about his mistresses, he felt furious with her. He had just put himself on the line for her and for Elizabeth, appealing to Francis to accept the idea of allowing his son to marry Elizabeth and swallowing his pride for their sakes and his reward for his concern for his wife and his child was to be rejected and insulted. Instead of thanking him for the efforts he was making on Elizabeth's behalf, instead of understanding how difficult it was for him, as a King, to ask another monarch to accept his daughter as a bride when he could not be sure that she would be deemed worthy of the match, and instead of offering him consolation over the failure of his attempts, Anne was only interested in interrogating him about the women with whom he spent time.

Even if it was any of her business what he did or who he did it with, he was furious with her for worrying about something so trivial when they had much more important things to contend with, furious with her for not realizing that, by championing her as his wife and Elizabeth as his heir, he was exposing himself to great difficulties. He had had to sign the death warrants of Thomas More and Bishop Fisher when they refused to take the Oath, something that was particularly painful in More's case, for the sake of protecting Anne's position, and now he might even face war, under circumstances when he could not count on the friendship or support of France if the Emperor decided to try to force the issue of Katherine and Mary's positions by force.

There were many among his own people who could well have been pleased to see that, people who had loved Katherine for many years, since she first came to England as Arthur's bride, and who were unhappy when she was set aside and reluctant to accept Anne in her place, especially as Anne was not even able to give them a prince to prove that it was for the best.

Despite the fact that he still knew that his union with Katherine was a sinful one, one that he was justified in nullifying, that night, Henry was unable to keep himself from wondering whether he would have been better off if he had stayed with Katherine instead of freeing himself to marry Anne. At least with Katherine, she was accepted as his lawful wife and Mary as his legitimate heir, with other monarchs of Europe willing to recognize them as Queen and Princess, something they were not prepared to do with Anne and Elizabeth. Katherine also knew better than to take him to task when he took a mistress, knowing that was his right as King to do so. Unlike Anne, Katherine was born royal, and had been taught how a Queen ought to behave from her infancy.

He felt guilty now for the way he had spoken to Anne that night, and could imagine that she must have been frightened when he told her that he had the power to drag her down as quickly as he raised her, words that must have been in her thoughts when she was arrested, but it was not his fault. But for Francis' insulting refusal to accept Elizabeth as a bride for his wretched son, he would have been in good humour that night, with a great weight lifted from his shoulders and he would have been more patient with her, contenting himself with a firm, gentle reminder that it was not her place to take him to task on that matter and leaving it at that.

Now the issue was being broached again, this time by Francis.

The French ambassador seemed unaware of Henry's darkening expression and he cheerfully enumerated the benefits of the marriage, stopping only when Henry raised a hand to silence him.

"This is a matter that was discussed before, Your Excellency." He pointed out smoothly, but with an edge of iron to his tone. "I proposed that my beloved daughter, Elizabeth, should be betrothed to the Duke of Angouleme and King Francis was unwilling to proceed with the match – he even indicated that he considered my bastard, Mary, to be a suitable bride for the Dauphin." He added, affecting surprise, as though he was puzzled about why the King of France should consider a bastard, even one who was the child of a fellow monarch, to be worthy of marrying into his family.

Although the French ambassador, like anybody with a modicum of intelligence and sense, had expected that Henry would remember what happened last time, even the shrewdest diplomat would have trouble finding a way to weather the issue, skirting over the issue of the past insult and finding a way to persuade Henry of his master's sincerity this time. "Your Majesty, I..."

"I do not intend to allow my beloved daughter to be insulted by rejection a second time." Henry stated flatly before the ambassador could find some excuse or another for Francis' previous refusal to follow through with the betrothal. There was nothing he could say that would make that betrayal less insulting or less hurtful and Henry was determined that Francis would not have another opportunity to lead him along, raising his hopes only to dash them. "Nor do I intend to allow the Lady Mary to be given any encouragement in her treasonable obstinacy if King Francis wishes to raise false hope in the girl by making an offer for her." If he was to have any hope of bringing Mary to an understanding of her true place in the world, and of how wrong she was to ever attempt to claim legitimacy, then he could not allow her pretended position as a princess to be reinforced by anybody, least of all by one of his fellow monarchs.

If Mary heard that King Francis, after rejecting Elizabeth as a potential bride for his son on the grounds that the Bishop of Rome did not accept her as legitimate, made enquiries about the possibility that she might marry into the House of Valois instead, she would view it as evidence that King Francis supported her as legitimate and it would make her more stubborn than ever, more unwilling to yield and take the Oath, and that was the last thing that Henry needed.

He intended to see to it that his stubborn elder daughter took the Oath of Succession before she was much older and he would not allow anything to prevent that from happening.

The ambassador wrinkled his nose, as though the idea of a match between Mary and one of the French princes was distasteful in the extreme, knowing that King Francis wished to secure this alliance and would approve of virtually anything he said or did to achieve it. "Although my master loves Your Majesty very much, he could never consent to a marriage between the Lady Mary and one of his sons," he remarked, affecting a misunderstanding, as though he thought that, rather than objecting to the idea, Henry was proposing a marriage for Mary with one of King Francis' sons. "Such a match would never be accepted by the people of France; they could not allow one of their princes to marry an illegitimate bride, not even if she is the natural daughter of so mighty a Prince as the King of England. If Your Majesty were to be agreeable, the Princess Royal would be welcomed as the wife of the Duke of Angouleme."

Henry was not stupid, and knew what the ambassador was trying to say to him. He was mollified somewhat by the way that Mary was dismissed outright as a potential bride for one of Francis' sons but he was not entirely satisfied, not with mere words.

"If my beloved brother, King Francis, is sincere in his wish for a marriage between the Duke of Angouleme and the Princess Royal, then I might be agreeable to such a match." He pronounced magnanimously, as though this was a great concession on his part, as though he had not petitioned Francis to allow such a match before and as though he would not be hoping and praying for it to work out this time. "Tell him that, if he wishes to petition me to allow the match, he should send envoys to formally bring a suit for marriage on the young Duke's behalf. I will be pleased to receive them, and to listen to what they have to say." He promised.

"Your Majesty is very gracious." The ambassador's smile was broad but Henry could see a slight wariness in his eyes, and to understand the reasons for that.

When Henry was the one to propose a marriage between Elizabeth and Francis' son, despite the fact that both the Emperor and the Bishop of Rome dared to call his daughter a bastard, Francis was able to play along with the marriage negotiations for a time, hinting that he was willing and knowing that, if he decided that it was better for him to back out of the match, he could claim that the only reason he ever appeared to be contemplating the idea of the match in the first place was that he did not want to offend Henry with an outright refusal to do so and had to pretend, for the sake of diplomacy, even though he never had any intention of allowing the match.

However, if he insisted that Francis should be the one to broach the issue, and to do so formally and publicly, then that alone would act to strengthen Elizabeth's position and, by extension, her mother's, as Francis would not be able to hide the fact that he freely proposed the marriage, indicating that he viewed Elizabeth as legitimate, regardless of what the Bishop of Rome claimed.

He knew that Francis was willing to broach the issue unofficially, through his ambassador – perhaps in the hope that Henry would take the bait and that he would be the one to pursue the matter formally, allowing Francis to be in a position where he could pretend that he was not the one to raise the issue initially – but he wanted to know whether he would be sincere about this commitment. He wanted to see if Francis would be prepared to act as the supplicant in this matter, putting Henry in a position where, instead of having to worry about whether or not Elizabeth would be accepted by the French, he would be the one able to decide whether he would accept or reject the Duke of Angouleme as a suitor for his younger daughter's hand.

Once the ambassador had bowed and left the room, Henry allowed a triumphant smile to spread across his face, feeling pleased and relieved. If this worked out, it would be to his advantage politically but, more than that, he could imagine how Anne would react to the news. She wanted to see their daughter marry a French prince and she wanted assurances that Elizabeth's position as his legitimate heir was safe. This marriage could satisfy both of those desires.

He couldn't wait to tell her the good news.

* * *

"How much longer will we be staying at court, Father?"

When he was first told that he was to travel to court with his stepmother, Edward Brandon was excited at both the prospect of staying at court for a while, and of being reunited with his father, who spent a lot of time away from home. He was a big boy, and could understand that it was his father's duty to be an obedient subject of the King's, which meant that if the King wished for him to be at court, and if he had duties for him to perform, it was his duty to obey him, as everybody had to obey the King. However, this visit to court was far longer than his visits usually were, and he was beginning to miss his home at Suffolk and to wish that he could return there.

At court, there were always so many rules about how people ought to behave, even if they were children and even if they were kin to the King himself. Edward's parents, governess and tutor spent a lot of time telling him how he ought to behave, warning him to be especially careful around the members of the royal family, and to make sure that he did nothing to offend them.

That was something that could get him in a lot of trouble.

Issues of precedence were especially difficult for him to remember, because there were so many rules; when he came to court, Catherine always pointed out the highest-ranking nobles and court officials, explaining to Edward that, although he was the eldest son and heir of the Duke of Suffolk and although he was the nephew of the King, there were still quite a few people at court who were of higher status than he was and it was very important for him to know who they were, so that he would know to bow to them whenever he met them, and to make way for them so that they could pass through doors and corridors before he did. If he didn't remember who they were, he might offend somebody and make them think that he was too proud to obey the rules.

He was confused about what he ought to do about the Lady Mary at first; ordinarily, he knew that the King's daughter was far more important than a Duke's son but he had heard some of the servants who tended to his parents whispering, and they seemed to think that this was not the case. Even though his cousin's father was the King, since she was not legitimate, she was not as important as a King's daughter usually would be, which meant that she was _less_ important than Edward. He was confused about that but he couldn't ask his parents to explain the matter to him. They became very angry if people called the Lady Mary illegitimate, but when he asked why, all they would say was that he was too young to understand yet.

At home, he had his lessons with his tutor but he also had plenty of time to ride and to practice his archery and other sports. When his father came to stay at home for a while, he always spent a lot of time outdoors with him, something that Edward loved. However, when he was at court, he couldn't go out as often as he liked, unless one of his parents was with him and, much to his disgust, his tutor seemed to think that this meant that they should spend even more time working on lessons than they usually did, so he would not be idle. His father tried to make time to take him out but, as a courtier, it was most important for him to do as the King wished, so even when he went hunting with him, Edward couldn't come because they didn't want children with them.

At least this afternoon his parents were both there to go out for a walk with him, but when he brought up the question of how long they would be staying at court, his father frowned.

"It is the King's wish that we remain at court for the time being, Edward." He told his son firmly, hoping that invoking Henry's name would be enough to silence any complaints that Edward might make. He could understand that the young boy was restless at court, and sympathize with him – there was a part of Brandon that would have dearly loved to be able to leave the court and return to their manor in Suffolk rather than staying at court to watch Anne being feted as Queen while honours were lavished on little Elizabeth, who was being championed as heir at Mary's expense – but if Henry wanted them to be at court, then they had no alternative but to stay there as long as he wanted, and any indication of displeasure at this could draw unwelcome attention on the Brandon family and, these days, no courtier could afford to appear to go against the King's wishes.

They had to tread carefully at court.

Edward nodded comprehension, understanding that if his royal uncle wanted them at court, they would have to stay, but he was not happy. He missed his home and the atmosphere at court was less pleasant than he remembered it being the last time he visited. His uncle was kind on the rare occasions when he saw him but he seemed to be preoccupied, and Edward had scarcely seen the Queen at all. She wasn't coming out among the court but it seemed to be her choice not to, he hadn't heard anything about her being in disgrace and forbidden to leave her apartment or anything like that, even though she was arrested not long ago.

Nobody had told him why the Queen was arrested, although he knew that it must have been something very serious because there was talk that she would be executed, the worst punishment of all. He also didn't know why his stepmother wasn't pleased when they heard the news that the Queen was to be set free. Edward was happy when he heard because, even though he knew that people who did wicked things to hurt the King deserved to be punished, he hadn't liked the idea that the lovely Queen who always treated him so kindly when he came to visit the court would be killed but he could see that Catherine was not pleased when she heard the news. Instead, she looked sad and she said something strange about how this would upset Princess Mary.

It seemed very simple to Edward; if Queen Anne had done something bad, she would have to be killed but if she had not, if it was all a mistake, then she should be set free and brought back to the palace so that she could be Queen again. For the adults, however, it seemed that the issue was not so simple and he couldn't understand why they would feel so differently about it.

If Queen Anne was innocent, surely his parents would not want her to be killed anyway!

"I haven't seen the Lady Mary, Father." He observed, deciding to leave the issue of the Queen for the moment and focus on his cousin. "Not since she first came to court. I thought that she would want to see me." He added with a frown, thinking that it was rather rude of his cousin not to want to see him, even though they were both living at court. "Where is she?"

"The King has given orders that she is to remain in the nursery, until he gives her permission to leave it." Brandon explained, his jaw tightening at the thought of the restriction that he deemed unnecessarily cruel. He knew that his friend was afraid that, if Mary was permitted to mingle with the courtiers, she would be able to be in contact with people who might support her, people who might consider her to be the rightful heir, not little Elizabeth, and he wanted to see to it that she was cut off from anybody who might bolster her spirit and her resistance, leaving her with only those who viewed her as a bastard and made no bones about it for company, people who would want to see Elizabeth honoured and who would humiliate Mary with pointed reminders of her bastard status, refusing to show any kindness or sympathy for her.

Mary wasn't even permitted to attend Mass in the chapel; one of Henry's chaplains conducted a service in a small chapel set up in the nursery, in English, that Mary might attend instead.

He could imagine how difficult it would be for a spirited, devout young girl to be isolated in her half-sister's nursery, cut off from any friends who might have offered her sympathy or support, and even from the Catholic, Latin Mass in which she would have taken some comfort and he was angry with Henry for treating his daughter like that, and for Anne for urging him to do so.

"The nursery?" Edward's eyes were wide with astonishment. "She's too big for _that_!"

He was looking forward to the day when he would finally be considered big enough not to have to be restricted to his nurseries and playrooms at Suffolk. His governess and his tutor had promised that, in two or three years time, maybe even a bit less if he studied his lessons diligently and made sure to behave himself, he would be old enough to be able to leave the nursery, to dine with the adults and even to go out walking and riding without having to have somebody going with him, as though he was a baby who was too young to be trusted by himself for even a moment.

The Lady Mary was much older than he was, a grown lady. He couldn't understand why she would have to live in the nursery... until he remembered what he had heard when Mary returned.

"She's not in the nursery because it's _her_ nursery, is she, Father?" He asked quietly. "She's there so that she can be the Princess Royal's servant."

"That's right." Brandon responded.

"Why?" Edward was troubled by this. Kings were the most important people in the world, which meant that their children were very important and very special. Even if Mary was illegitimate, she was still the King's daughter, and he would have thought that a King's daughter should have servants of her own to wait on her instead of her having to act as a servant to somebody else, not even to Princess Elizabeth who, as Princess Royal, was the most honoured lady in court after the Queen, far more important than even Catherine, who was Duchess of Suffolk, was. "A King's daughter shouldn't be somebody's servant, should she?"

"No." Catherine stated flatly, her anger at the situation plain, even to Edward.

Brandon shot a warning frown in her direction, wanting to be able to explain the issue in a way that his young son would understand and to ensure that he did not ask questions of the wrong people, or mention the fact that his stepmother had said that Mary should not have to be a servant. "It's very complicated, Edward." Given the choice, he would not have discussed this matter with his son, not yet, not until the boy was older, but if he and his family were going to have to stay at court for the foreseeable future, then he was going to have to tell him something, enough to satisfy his curiousity and keep him from asking awkward questions, at any rate. "You see, there was a time when people in England thought that Lady Mary was a Princess."

"I know that part." Edward cut him off, even though it was very rude for a child to interrupt, especially when his father was the one speaking. "The King was married to Lady Mary's mother, and he thought that it was alright for him to be married to her but then it turned out that their marriage was wrong and that meant that the Lady Mary wasn't a Princess after all."

Brandon nodded slightly. Had his son been a few years older, he would have found an opportunity to speak to him privately, explaining that the issue of Henry's first marriage was more complicated than that, and that there were many people who still viewed Mary as a Princess of England, and with good reason. "The Lady Mary was very sad and very shocked when she heard that she wasn't a princess any longer," he continued, smiling slightly when he saw Edward nod comprehension, able to understand that it was a blow for his cousin to lose the place that she had held for so long. "She was called Princess Mary for years and years, and the King even made her Princess of Wales – and that is an even more important title than Princess Royal or Duchess of York." He added with a grim smile, wondering how Anne felt about the fact that, even though Henry was heaping honours on their daughter, Henry had still not honoured Elizabeth as highly as he had once honoured Mary.

Would she be satisfied with Elizabeth's title as Princess Royal or would she soon be trying to get Henry to name their child Princess of Wales as well?

"Did that mean that the King thought that Mary was going to be the next Queen?" Edward asked, his eyes wide at the thought. His real mother was Princess Margaret, the King's sister, but she was an ordinary Princess of England with no special title, because she wasn't the heiress to the throne. Prince of Wales was the title given to a boy who was heir to the throne and, even though Princess Elizabeth was the heir to the throne, at least until she had a brother, and even though she was given the titles of Princess Royal and Duchess of York, she wasn't the Princess of Wales.

"Not just the King, everybody in England believed that Mary would be Queen one day, and so did Mary. It was a long time after she was born that anybody thought that she was illegitimate."

"And she was very sad when she found out?"

"More than sad," Brandon said carefully; he had to make sure that he said nothing that would imply that it was wrong of Henry to declare Mary a bastard or to suggest that he thought that Mary was right to defy him by refusing to accept her reduced status but, at the same time, he wanted his son to understand that his cousin had had her reasons for refusing, reasons that he should understand and sympathize with instead of just condemning her for being disobedient. "She was a princess for a very long time, and she was treated like a princess so, when the King sent a messenger to tell her that she was not permitted to call herself a princess any longer and that she was to be known as the Lady Mary instead, she didn't want to accept it."

"Did she say that she was a princess, even though the King said that she wasn't?" Edward's eyes were wide at the thought of somebody daring to defy the King like that.

"Yes." Brandon said quietly. "And the King ordered that she should serve Princess Elizabeth, until she learned that she wasn't a princess and that she shouldn't call herself that any more." Although he was able to frame his words in such a way that he could not be alleged to have accused Henry of cruelty in his decision to force Mary to wait on Elizabeth, even managing to make it seem like an almost reasonable action on his friend's part rather than an act of unkindness or malice, he couldn't keep a note of anger from his tone and he was relieved that Edward didn't seem to pick up on it. Catherine did and she reached out to squeeze his hand, understanding his feelings.

Like him, she deplored the way Mary was being treated.

Edward pondered his father's words for a few moments, chewing his lower lip as he reflected on his cousin's predicament. He was fond of Mary and did not like to think of her being sad because she had to act as Princess Elizabeth's servant when she used to be called a princess herself, and had a household of her own but, at the same time, he knew that it was very wrong to disobey the King, and that Mary could not be permitted to do that without getting into trouble for it.

"What if Lady Mary went to the King and told him that she knows that she's not really a princess?" He suggested, thinking that this could be a very sensible solution to the problem his cousin faced. If the King knew that Mary wasn't going to be disobedient any more, then he wouldn't need to order her to wait on Princess Elizabeth. "She wouldn't be a servant then."He

His father's smile was sad as he ruffled his hair. "It's not that simple."

"Why not?"

There were many things that Brandon would have liked to say in response to his son's innocent question. He would have liked to tell him that Mary was a very principled young woman, even when she was still in her early teens, and that just as she would never have agreed to Henry's demand that she should accept that she was illegitimate when he demanded it of her a few years previously, she would, in all likelihood, prefer to continue to wait on Elizabeth rather than renounce her rights and repudiate her mother. He would have liked to tell him that, to many eyes, his own included, Mary was standing up for her rights, something that she should be praised for rather than condemned. He would have liked to tell Edward that, in his heart, Henry loved Mary dearly and would never have wanted to hurt her, if not for Anne.

He couldn't have forgotten the days when Mary was the pearl of his world.

Anne's concern was her own child's welfare and interests and she never seemed to spare a thought for Mary, either before her arrest or after she was released. Brandon wouldn't put it past Anne, not to mention her scheming father, to have figured out that, as long as she was rebuffing Henry's overtures, he would be more desperate than ever to make things right for her, even if it meant that he had to hurt and humiliate Mary in order to satisfy Anne and to assure her that she had no cause to worry that Mary could ever be a rival to their child.

She was clever, Brandon had to give her that, and more than capable of manipulating Henry with her coldness, knowing that he was desperate to win her approval again and that he would do just about anything if it meant that she would give him a sign that a reconciliation was possible.

He should not want an innocent woman to be put to death for crimes she had not committed, especially when other innocent people would have died with her and, for the most part, he was glad that Anne had been released but there was a part of Brandon that couldn't keep himself from wishing that Henry had never doubted her guilt.

He was still trying to come up with an answer to his son's question when Edward saw something that distracted him enough to make him forget his question. "There's the Queen," he announced, pointing at a small group of figures not far away from them. "And the Princess is with her." He squinted, trying to make out the man with them, wondering if the King was out walking with his wife and daughter, just as his father was out walking with him and Katherine but that wasn't the case. "It's not the King with him, it's the Earl of Wiltshire." He reported, glancing up at his father.

He knew that his father did not like Lord Wiltshire and, considering the way Lord Wiltshire had spoken about the Lady Mary, Edward did not like him very much either.

Elizabeth had spotted another child outside and, even though Edward was much older than she was, she ran towards him, delighted by the prospect of a playmate while her cousin slept. Annie was fun to play with but because she was nearly a whole year younger than Elizabeth, she took two naps during the day instead of one. Once she reached the young boy, she held out her hand so that he could kiss it, beaming at him when he bowed low and brushed her fingers with his lips. She recognized him from the ceremony in honour of her elevation as Princess Royal but they weren't introduced that day, though he _was_ rather familiar to her.

"What's your name?" She asked. "I'm Princess Elizabeth – the Princess Royal." Her smile became wide as she spoke her new title, which she was very proud of.

Anne reached her daughter's side, resting her hands on Elizabeth's shoulders and trying to resist the urge to snatch her child away from the Brandons. Although she could see from young Edward's smile of welcome at Elizabeth's approach that the boy did not have any malice in his heart for her or for Elizabeth, the Duke and Duchess of Suffolk were another matter. Both of them had grim looks on their face when she came near them, as though the very sight of her was offensive to their eyes. They bowed and curtsied, as they were required to, but it was plain that, for all their show of respect, they loathed her and would have been rude if they had dared.

Ignoring their scowls, she smiled and Elizabeth, kneeling down to her child's level. "This is your cousin, Lord Edward, sweetheart." She reminded her. "Remember? You've met him before."

"You were littler then." Edward told her helpfully.

"Oh." Elizabeth couldn't remember meeting Edward before but she was pleased to meet another cousin. "Hello, Lord Edward." She said with a sunny smile.

He bowed again. "Princess Elizabeth – and Your Majesty." He added hastily, bowing to Anne. He should have bowed to the Queen before he bowed to the Princess but she didn't seem to be angry that he had bowed to Elizabeth first. She was smiling at him now, very kindly.

"How are you, Lord Edward." She asked him. "Are you having fun at court?"

"Yes, Your Majesty... I mean Aunt Anne." He amended, remembering that this was supposed to call her when he saw her on an informal occasion. He knew that he had to say that he was having fun at court, even if he wasn't really. It would have been very rude for him to tell her that he was tired of the court and would have preferred to go home. His tutor had explained to him that sometimes telling a little lie wasn't really wicked, it was something called 'diplomacy' and he felt very glad that he had been diplomatic when Queen Anne gave him a warm smile.

"I'm glad." Anne focused her attention on the young boy, trying to ignore his parents' grim expressions. "Maybe you'd like to play with the Princess Royal sometime." She suggested kindly. It couldn't be easy for Edward to stay at court for a long time, given how few children they were living at Whitehall Palace, aside from the young children of the palace servants, children with whom a Duke's son could never play. Even though Elizabeth and Annie were so much younger than Edward, she thought that he would still enjoy playing with them.

"That'd be fun!" Elizabeth exclaimed before Edward could say anything. "There are lots and lots of toys for us to play with, and Mama would let us have all the sweetmeats we want, even if Lady Bryan says 'no'." Elizabeth loved living at court with her Mama and one of the nice things about it was that her Mama would let her do things that Lady Bryan would not. Even if Lady Bryan disapproved when Mama let Elizabeth do as she liked, she couldn't say anything about it.

A governess couldn't argue with the Queen.

Edward looked up at his father, thinking that it would be nice to play with his young cousin – and the promise of sweetmeats certainly added to the appeal of the invitation. "May I, Father?"

"We'll see." Brandon said, in a tone that Edward recognized, one that meant that his father had already decided that he wasn't going to say 'yes' but didn't want to say 'no' yet. He laid his hand on his son's shoulder, guiding him towards Catherine, who took Edward by the hand and took a few steps away with him. "If you will excuse us, Your Majesty?" He told Anne coldly, inclining his head slightly before moving to follow his wife and son, not waiting for her to give him leave.

She would have been within her rights to insist that he should stay, until she gave him leave to depart, but she didn't bother remarking on his breach of courtesy and etiquette.

Brandon was ready to walk away, glad that he was able to escape having to speak with either Anne or her father but, when he was barely a dozen paces away, he turned on his heel and strode back to Anne, looking her directly in the eye and glaring at her.

"How long do you plan on keeping this up?" He demanded of her, his irritation increasing when Anne merely raised an eyebrow by way of response, as though she was surprised by his words, as though she could not understand what it was he was talking about. He could hear Catherine warning Edward to stay back and he heard her footsteps crunching the gravel on the path but he did not turn to look at her. He knew that she would try to get him to move away, to remind him that it was dangerous for him to pit himself against Anne but, even though he knew that she would be right to caution him against it, he had to say his piece. "What are you doing this for?"

"I think that you should leave, Suffolk." Boleyn told him in a warning tone, matching Brandon's glare with a dark scowl of his own, furious with him for speaking to Anne with disrespect. "And kindly remember that you are speaking to the Queen of England."

Brandon snorted in derision. "A Queen who was a prisoner not that long ago." He remarked sourly, thinking that Anne should be thankful for her reprieve. Even if she was innocent, she should know that this need not have saved her neck. It certainly hadn't saved men like Fisher and More, who went to their deaths because of her, when their only crime was to act as their consciences dictated. Anne should remember that, and show that she appreciated her good fortune by being kind to people like Mary, who were suffering for her sake. "And a Queen who nearly lost her head."

"Mama!" Elizabeth cried out in dismay, tears trickling down her cheeks at the thought that somebody might have cut her Mama's head off. She wanted her Mama to tell the Duke of Suffolk that it wasn't true, that nobody would ever put her in prison or try to hurt her in any way, but her Mama didn't say that he was lying. Instead, her face went very white and she looked scared.

Boleyn's glare was a poisonous one as he looked at Brandon. "We all know why those charges were made, Your Grace." He said sharply, his eyes as scornful as if he was looking at a filthy beggar in the street, or a particularly loathsome species of vermin rather than at the Duke of Suffolk, one of the King's closest friends and one of the highest-ranking peers in the realm. "Do you think that we are not aware of your involvement?" He asked, a clear note of menace to his voice, warning Brandon to tread carefully if he did not want to follow in Cromwell's footsteps.

Anne didn't seem to hear her father's words. She kept her attention focused on Brandon, her blue eyes icy. "I will not discuss this matter, or any other with you, Lord Suffolk." She told him coldly, her tone as dismissive as if she was addressing a menial servant. She put one arm around little Elizabeth and turning to guide her child away, knowing that she was going to have a difficult time explaining to Elizabeth what Brandon had meant when he said that she was imprisoned and that she had nearly been beheaded. She had kept the grim details of what had happened from Elizabeth, knowing that her daughter was far too young to understand it and she was furious with Brandon for alluding to it in Elizabeth's hearing and upsetting her child.

Brandon reached out, grabbing her wrist in an iron grip. "Don't you walk away from me!" He exclaimed angrily, furious with her for the way she looked at him, as though he was so far beneath her that she did not think him worthy of her notice, for the way she was acting, knowing that with Henry so desperate to please her, she could have whatever she wanted if she could play her cards right, and for all of the trouble she had brought to England since the day she returned.

If only the ship carrying her back from France years ago could have sunk!

"What more do you want?" He demanded of her, wondering if there was a point when Anne would be satisfied or if she intended to continue manipulating Henry into making more and more concessions for the rest of his life, dangling the prospect of forgiveness and reconciliation in front of him but never granting it, not as long as she could reap the benefits of refusing it. She had managed to hold Henry's love for years, longer than any other woman, by denying him his desire, and won the Queen's crown for it. Now she had another weapon, and was making full use of it. "He has already sent Mistress Seymour away, and you know that you're going to stay as Queen."

"Do you think it would have troubled me if he had kept that wench at court?" Anne asked quietly but very coldly, thinking that Brandon was a fool if he thought that she would begrudge Jane Seymour, or any other slut who caught Henry's eye, her husband's attention or his presence in their beds. As long as he didn't expect to share her bed, Henry could do as he liked.

Brandon wasn't listening. Now that he had begun, he couldn't have stopped, even if he wanted to. "He has made Elizabeth the Princess Royal, and he's going to promote her as his heir because he knows that this is what you want. For you, he's willing to treat Princess Mary like dirt, and force her to wait on Elizabeth. He's going to bully her into taking the Oath, to make _your_ child safe!" Henry didn't need to tell Brandon that, he already knew; if the humiliation of having to wait on little Elizabeth proved to be insufficient to induce Mary to take the Oath, then it was only a matter of time before Henry resorted to sterner measures against his child. "Are you really such a callous, heartless bitch that you don't care how much she is suffering because of you?" He demanded hotly, tightening his grasp of her wrist until the skin underneath his fingers was stark white.

"Father, don't hurt the Queen!" Edward exclaimed, distressed by the sight of his father, who had always told him how important it was to be chivalrous to a lady, hurting a woman.

Boleyn, appalled, shoved Brandon roughly in the chest to force him to release his grasp of Anne. "You take your filthy hands off her, you whoreson traitor!" He commanded, reaching for his dagger with one hand, ready to use it if Brandon did not let go of her. He would never again stand idly by and allow any man, even the King, to harm his daughter in any way.

Catherine laid her hand on her husband's arm, exerting gentle pressure until he released Anne's wrist. "I think that we should go, husband." She whispered urgently.

"Papa!" Elizabeth cried out, seeing her father out with another gentleman. "Papa, come here!" She called out before her mother or anybody else could stop her.

Brandon and Catherine's dismay was equalled by Boleyn's triumph. He gently drew Anne away from the Brandons, feeling satisfied to think that Brandon would pay for his behaviour. Even if the King had cared nothing for Anne, his honour and pride would demand that he punish Brandon for his behaviour towards his wife.

When Henry approached, flanked by Knivert, he could see at a glance that something was seriously wrong. Elizabeth was tearful and Edward Brandon looked almost as distressed as she did. Brandon and his wife both looked alarmed, while Anne was holding one wrist with her other hand, an angry, unhappy expression on her face and her father was glaring at Brandon.

"What is going on here?" He asked sharply.

"He's bad!" Elizabeth cried, pointing a chubby finger in Brandon's direction, scowling at him. "He hurt Mama, he grabbed her arm and he squeezed it really, really tight and he said horrible things!" She started crying and Anne bent down to pick her up, cuddling her close and trying to soothe her.

"Excuse me, Your Majesty." She said to Henry, not waiting for him to answer before she walked away, wanting to get Elizabeth safely inside and to reassure her that everything was alright.

Henry watched her go before turning back to Brandon and Boleyn. "What happened here?" He demanded of them both, frowning darkly at Brandon, knowing that if something had happened, he was likely to have been involved. He certainly had no love for Anne. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Catherine ushering Edward away, though she left in a different direction than Anne and Elizabeth had, and this confirmed his suspicions that something was very wrong.

"I certainly hope that Your Majesty intends to punish the Duke of Suffolk for this outrage." Boleyn's anger was plain and, for once, his emotion was entirely unfeigned. He was disgusted by what Brandon dared to do, and he expected that the King would feel the same way. "No man should be allowed to lay hands on the Queen of England without paying the price for it."

With those words, Henry's attention was focused entirely on his friend. "Is this true?" He demanded, his tone hard and angry. "Did you hurt my wife? The Princess Royal said that you did." He said, remembering his little daughter's tearful accusations and the way Anne was holding her wrist when he approached the group.

"Your Majesty, I..." He knew that there was no excuse that he could offer, knew that if another man had laid a finger on Catherine, there was nothing that that man would be able to say to him that would diffuse the anger he felt over it, but he still wanted to remonstrate with Henry. He shouldn't have grabbed Anne the way he did but that didn't mean that he wasn't right about the way she was behaving. Henry needed to be aware of the way that Anne was manipulating him, so that he could resist the temptation to give in to her when she behaved coldly to him. It didn't mean that he wasn't right about Mary, and the way she was being treated.

Instead of being pacified by Brandon's words, Henry's temper was roused even further by what he perceived as the other man's attempt to excuse his actions. He swung a clenched fist at Brandon, catching him in the jaw and sending him sprawling. "There is _no_ excuse!" He shouted at him, glaring down at Brandon's prone form. "I will speak to you about this later, Your Grace." He promised in an ominous tone before sweeping away to follow after Anne.

Boleyn followed, but not before giving Brandon a spiteful, triumphant smirk.

Knivert looked down at Brandon, shaking his head, unable to believe that his friend could be so stupid as to get into a confrontation with Anne, for any reason, when Henry was doing his best to make amends with his wife, after everything that had happened, especially when Brandon had been the one to make the accusation that set off all the trouble. He reached out a hand to haul him to his feet, watching as Brandon touched his jaw gingerly.

"You're a fool, Charles." He told him quietly. "An utter fool."

* * *

When Henry reached Anne's apartment, he commanded her ladies to leave, his tone brooking no argument and as they left, he hastened over to the fireplace, where Anne was holding Elizabeth on her lap, cuddling her close. He crouched down next to the chair, reaching for Anne's arm but hesitating before he touched her, not wanting to do it without her permission. "May I?"

Anne didn't move for a long moment but she finally extended her hand, allowing Henry to gently fold back her sleeve so that he could inspect her wrist, and the faint pink fingermarks on it. "It doesn't hurt." She said, before Henry could express his outrage or fuss about whether or not they needed to send for Dr Linacre to look at it. She was more troubled by what Brandon had said to her than what he did. Did he really think that she was the one who was making Henry treat Mary the way he was? She dismissed the thought. She had never asked Henry to be unkind to Mary, and she knew her husband well enough to know that, even if she wasn't an issue, Henry would still be determined to see to it that Mary would yield to his will, and would punish her for refusing.

It wasn't just about protecting Elizabeth's position, much less about pleasing Anne.

Henry was utterly resolved that Mary would take the Oath because he wanted her to admit that he was right about his union with her mother being incestuous and therefore invalid, and right when he downgraded Mary from Princess to bastard and barred her from the succession. Katherine was dead now and could never give him the satisfaction of admitting that their marriage was invalid and their daughter illegitimate – not that she would ever have said that, even if she had lived to be a hundred! – so Henry had to content himself with pressing Mary to admit it instead.

"The bastard!" Henry swore, feeling as though he could strangle his friend with his bare hands. "He'll pay for this, sweetheart, I promise you that." He vowed grimly, thinking that he could cheerfully force Brandon to crawl on his hands and knees to Anne to beg for her forgiveness, and to lick the floor on which she walked. A man who offered violence to his Queen deserved no more respect or honour than the lowest criminal rotting in a jail.

"He's a very bad man." Elizabeth stated flatly, a scowl marring her childish features. "He said nasty things to Mama, and he grabbed her arm and he even said called Mary a Princess – those are very bad things to do, aren't they, Papa?" Being nasty to her Mama was a very bad thing for anybody to do but calling Mary a Princess was bad too. Lady Bryan told Elizabeth that Mary wasn't a princess and that if she ever said that she was, she was telling lies and Elizabeth should pay no attention to her. Since the Duke of Suffolk called Mary 'Princess Mary', he was a wicked liar as well as being a horrible man, a man who deserved to be punished for being so naughty.

"Did he, my precious?" Henry asked, his frown deepening at this evidence of Brandon's true feelings. Brandon professed loyalty to him, and had even backed Henry when he sought to circulate the Act of Succession, guaranteeing Elizabeth's right, and the rights of the other children that Anne would bear him, to succeed to the throne and disbarring Mary from the succession. He had thought that, although Brandon had some sympathy for Mary, he accepted her as the bastard she was and he was displeased to learn that this was the case.

He was inclined to send for Audley and to command that Brandon and his family were to be banished from the court at once, sent back to their home in Suffolk in dire disgrace and forbidden to show their faces in his presence again... but then he thought of another punishment for Brandon, one that was far more fitting, given his dislike of Anne and his apparent belief that Mary was a Princess, and one that he suspected would have far more of an impact on him than mere banishment ever could.

"Yes." Elizabeth confirmed. She was silent for a little while before she continued. "He said other things too, Papa, things that were very horrible. He said that Mama was in prison, and that she nearly had her head cut off!" She began to cry when she said it, feeling very frightened to think that something like that could have happened to her Mama, who was so beautiful and so loving and so good, and that she might have lost her forever. "Was it true?" She asked, hoping that one of her parents would assure her that it wasn't, that the Duke was just telling lies.

Henry would have dearly loved to do just that but he couldn't lie to his daughter. Even if he did, it was inevitable that she would hear the truth about what had happened during the terrible weeks that passed between the commencement of the investigation into the allegations against Anne – allegations that Brandon had made – and his realization that his wife had been unjustly charged and condemned. When she learned of that, it would only make matters worse for him if he had lied to her before and attempted to conceal the truth.

"Yes, it's true." Henry said, wincing inwardly when he saw the colour drain from Anne's face at the memory of how close she had come to dying... how close he had come to allowing her to be murdered. Without a word, she passed Elizabeth into his arms and rose from her chair, hastening away, through the curtained doorway leading into her bedchamber, unable to be present when he and Elizabeth spoke of the matter. He could understand why she could not bear to listen, and made no attempt to keep her from leaving.

"You let them put Mama in prison?" Elizabeth asked him, unable to believe that her Papa could do such a thing.

"Yes." Henry admitted reluctantly.

"Why?"

"What did your Mama tell you?" Henry asked, wanting to make sure that he knew what his daughter had been told before he said anything else to her. If he knew what Anne had said and what she had omitted from the retelling, he would know how much – or how little – of the full story that he ought to tell Elizabeth, and which details she should be spared, given her age.

"She said that there were people who told you lies about her, and who said that she did wicked things even though she never did." Elizabeth explained solemnly, trying to remember everything that her Mama had told her. "She said that that was why she had to go away for a while, until it was sorted out and everybody knew that she didn't do anything bad – but she didn't say that she was in prison when she went away." She added tearfully. Prison was where bad people, people who did very, very wicked things had to live and she didn't like to think of her Mama having to live in such a horrible place, around nasty, wicked people, not even for a short time.

"That's right." Henry confirmed, feeling surprised that Anne had absolved him of responsibility in her retelling, when another woman could easily have seized the opportunity to blacken his name as much as possible, blaming him for everything so that she might wean their child's affection and loyalty away from him. He was certain that Katherine had done everything in her power to convince Mary he was in the wrong where their marriage was concerned, unwilling to admit that she had lied about her virginity and entrapped him in a sinful union so that she might become Queen, preferring to allow Mary to believe that her father only wished to dissolve his marriage to her mother because of his lust for another woman, for whose sake he was willing to declare his daughter a bastard and convincing their daughter that she was a true princess instead of telling her the truth and encouraging her to accept it, however painful it was. He was glad that Anne had not followed her example. "You see, once I heard the lies, it was very important for me to find out whether they were true or not, even if it made me sad to think that I would have to punish your Mama if they were. I had to send her to the Tower while we investigated the matter."

"No, you didn't." Elizabeth contradicted him firmly. "All you needed to do was ask Mama. She'd have told you that she didn't do anything bad and then you would know that you didn't need to send her away... she tried to talk to you and you shouted at her." She added, frowning at the memory. "You shouldn't have shouted."

"No, I shouldn't have." Henry agreed. "But you don't understand, Elizabeth, I couldn't just take your Mama's word for it that she was innocent. When people are caught doing wicked things, they nearly always say that they didn't do it, even if they did, because they are afraid of being punished for it. I couldn't know if she was telling the truth or if she was lying to me."

"Mama wouldn't lie to you." Elizabeth stated flatly, deeming this an indisputable fact.

"I know that now, but I didn't know it then." Henry said, hoping to pacify her. It was bad enough to have Anne angry and distant with him. He didn't want to lose Elizabeth's affection too. "When you're older, you'll be able to understand. It made me very sad to think that your mother did wicked things, things that I might have to punish her for, but if I found out that she was guilty, I would have had to punish her for it, even though I love her. Do you understand?"

"No." Elizabeth told him bluntly, frowning. "If you love Mama, then you shouldn't ever want to do something that would hurt her or make her sad, no matter what – and you should never, ever, ever want to cut off her head." She lectured him, speaking as clearly and as intelligently as a child at least twice her years.

Henry was silent as he digested Elizabeth's words, wondering if she was right. If he loved Anne, how could he have ever contemplated allowing her to be killed, regardless of what she did? Even if she had truly betrayed him, he could have shown her mercy, in memory of the great love they had shared and for the sake of their child, but he had almost allowed her to be killed. Although, when the moment of truth came, he was unable to sign her death warrant because of his doubts, he felt that, if he had not doubted Anne's guilt, he would have signed, without hesitation and without even contemplating the idea of showing her mercy and sparing her life, perhaps sending her to a nunnery, one where she could live in peace but without troubling him.

Because he was jealous.

The answer was such a simple one.

When Brandon told him about the rumours about Anne's behaviour, when Cromwell returned from the investigation with evidence that Anne had had at least several lovers, and likely many more, he was jealous. He had made up his mind to be rid of Anne, he was determined to set her aside and to take Jane as his wife in her place but, even though he intended to see to it that Anne would not be able to call herself his wife much longer, she was still his and the idea that other men might have been her lovers, that she might have had feelings for them instead of reserving her passion and her devotion for him, was a betrayal more painful than he had ever thought imaginable.

He wanted to destroy her, not because she had hurt him as a King, not because she had exposed him and the Crown to ridicule, or even because she had placed the integrity of the royal bloodline in jeopardy, but because she had hurt him as a man. He wanted to see her executed because the idea that she might live, cherishing memories of other men, was unbearable for him.

Elizabeth asked him a question but he did not hear it, did not even realize that she had asked it until she tugged at his sleeve, wanting an answer to her question.

"What did you say, my jewel." He asked, receiving a reproachful frown from a daughter who was indignant at the thought that he had not been listening to her.

"Did you tell Mama that you were sorry for sending her to prison and nearly letting her head be cut off?" She asked. Her Papa's silence answered her question. "I think that you should."

Henry stiffened at his daughter's words, his pride warring with his remorse over what he had allowed to happen to Anne. He kissed his daughter, asking her to run in to Anne and, once Elizabeth had scampered off in search of her mother, he left Anne's apartment, Elizabeth's solemn words reverberating in his ears as he walked away, leaving him wondering about them.

He freely acknowledged that the experience was a difficult one for Anne, and even that he could have handled the situation better than he had, sparing them all a lot of pain and hardship, but he had never asked anybody to bring false charges against Anne, or even hinted that he wished for them to do anything of the sort. He didn't need to apologize for the lies that others had told, or for the fact that he had reacted to those lies the way any monarch in his position would have had to react, regardless of whether he loved his wife passionately and was heartbroken to think her capable of betraying him or whether he loathed her and believed that she could do it.

He had stopped things before they could progress too far for him to rectify them, he had exonerated his wife and the men who were accused with her and he had seen to it that their accusers would pay the price for slandering them. He didn't owe Anne, or anybody else, an apology for what had happened to them before that, as part of the investigations and the trials.

Did he?

If he had nothing to apologize for, then why did he feel guilty?

What was he supposed to do to make this right?


	14. Chapter 14

**_5th July 1536_ **

It would have been bad enough if Henry had sent for him straight away, to let him know what he intended to do with him, what punishment he intended to exact for what had happened with Anne in the gardens, but instead the King kept Brandon waiting a full week before he sent for him.

Another man might have made the mistake of thinking that this was a _good_ thing, of believing that, if the King believed that they had wronged him – or, in this case, his wife – in some way, they were better off if as much time as possible passed between their offence and their summons to the King's presence to answer for that offence, in the hope that the King's initial anger would soften somewhat, if he had time to cool down and to realize that it was not as bad as he initially thought, and that they would be let off easier because of it.

Brandon knew better than to think that.

If Henry was angry, if he believed that Brandon had wronged him or insulted the Crown by wronging Anne, then a week would not blunt his anger, nor would it make him think that he had overreacted initially and that, while Brandon might not have been justified in handling Anne roughly, it was not a great crime, especially under the circumstances, nor was it something that should be allowed to come between their existing, and long-standing friendship. It certainly would not make him think that Brandon might have a point about Anne's conduct since her release, or about Mary's treatment. Instead, all it would do would be to give him time to brood over what had happened, and for his anger to grow rather than to dissipate – especially if Anne and her father were taking advantage of the opportunity to speak against him when he could not defend himself, stressing that Henry could not allow any man to behave roughly towards his Queen without giving him cause to regret his actions, even if the man was somebody that he called a friend.

Technically, Brandon had not been placed under house arrest, nor had it been hinted that it for be better for him to confine himself to his family's apartment until such a time as the King sent for him but, even so, he had thought it best if he kept a low profile and stayed in his own rooms as much as possible so he had passed a lonely week, worrying about when the summons to Henry's Privy Chamber would come and what his friend intended to do with him. Even though he was not arrested and sent to the Tower, he knew better than to think that he was out of trouble.

Catherine was worried, so much so that she had even gone so far as to suggest that it might be wise for him to go to Anne and ask for an audience with her, to apologize to her in the hopes that it would help in terms of softening Henry, something he had never thought he would hear her say, given her dislike of Anne, but Brandon wouldn't do that. He couldn't see that it would do any good.

If Anne wanted to stir up Henry's anger towards him, an apology on his part wasn't going to change her mind or make her decide to surrender the weapon he had handed her instead of utilizing it to its full extent, avenging herself for the fact that he had never truly supported her, not even when he was working with her father and uncle to place her on the throne, instead sympathizing with Katherine and with Mary, and for the fact that he was the one who arrested her and who had made the initial accusation against her.

On the other hand, if she had already decided not to bother, if she was so unwilling to yield with regard to speaking to Henry that she wasn't even interested in doing her utmost to make Brandon pay for the way he behaved towards her, and didn't intend to take advantage of Henry's desire to please her to convince him to banish the Brandons from court and leaving them disgraced, as they Seymours were banished and disgraced, then he would gain nothing from apologizing, not if her decision was already made and she did not intend to make a move against him.

He couldn't bear to give her, or her loathsome father, the satisfaction of seeing him, the man who had arrested Anne little over two months ago, and conducted her to the Tower knowing full well that it was extremely likely that she would die within its precincts, shamed with the labels of adulteress and traitor, come to her to plead with her to forgive him, and to tell Henry that she had, to let them know that the wheel had turned, yet again, and that he, who was secure and powerful two months ago and who had had cause to look forward to the day when she would be cast aside as her predecessor was before her, was now in a position where he had to ask the Boleyns to plead with the King for mercy on his behalf.

He wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing him plead with them.

When the summons came, he felt mingled apprehension over the impending interview, which he knew would not be pleasant, but he also felt a measure of relief that he at least was not going to have to keep waiting in suspense, wondering what Henry had planned for him and imagining the penalties that he might be forced to pay any longer.

A week of waiting was bad enough.

Since he had not been arrested yet, it was unlikely that this was what Henry had planned for him. If it was, he would have had guards knocking on his door on the day of his confrontation with Anne, and he would have been jailed now, awaiting either a trial or the King's pleasure. However angry Henry might be, he would surely not want to see a man who was his trusted friend and close companion since they were boys locked away in a grim cell in the Tower, but there was a possibility that he might be banished from the court.

Years ago, Thomas Boleyn had sought him out to see if he would be interested in allying with himself and the Duke of Norfolk against Wolsey, offering to persuade the King to welcome Brandon back to court in exchange for his cooperation, an offer that Brandon fervently wished that he had never accepted. With hindsight, he was sure that Henry would never leave him exile for very long; eventually he would have decided to welcome his friend and his sister back to court, forgiving them for marrying without his permission. Even if he had not, at least then Brandon would not bear part of the responsibility for Anne Boleyn being elevated to the throne while Katherine was cast down, or for the suffering Anne's ascension had caused in England.

When Boleyn made his offer, he seemed to have no doubt that Brandon would accept it, believing that no man who had been at court could ever bear the idea of never being allowed to set foot there again, never allowed in the King's presence, which Boleyn had likened to the sun. It was certainly true that a gentleman who hoped to prosper needed to be in favour with the King, or at least sponsored by somebody else who had his favour. Back then, Brandon had believed that it was essential that he win his way back to court and into the King's good graces, whatever the cost, and he had made a deal with the Devil in order to secure his return to favour, unwilling to stay in the country with Margaret, tending his estates like a country squire.

Now, however, he knew that there were worse things than banishment.

He had a family now, a wife and a son whom he loved deeply and with whom he longed to be able to spend more time. If he was banished from the court, then he could take Edward and Catherine and return to Suffolk with them, and they could live peacefully there, without having to worry unduly about what Anne was doing as she could have little impact on them if they kept their heads down and drew no attention to themselves. It would also mean that Brandon was much less likely to be called upon to carry out such objectionable duties as bullying those who would not accept Anne as Queen, cementing his enemy's position.

Catherine had confided in him this morning that she was with child again, having lost their first child last year, and it was likely to be much better for her health if they could leave London and the vipers' nest at court, at least for a while, and return to the country and to a quiet life there.

If Henry told him that he was to be banished, Brandon thought that he would almost welcome it.

There were other punishments that might be employed against him, if Henry chose.

Henry would never be a miser, like his father, but even he had learned that it did not do for a King to be too generous, even with his favourites, and that a shrewd monarch could benefit from exacting heavy financial penalties against nobles who displeased him. He might decide to levy a large fine against Brandon, or to command that he should surrender some of his estates to the Crown in payment for his treatment of Anne. That would be a blow, especially as he had young Edward's inheritance to think of, along with that of the child Catherine carried, but he could console himself with the reminder that, once this blew over, Henry's attitude towards him could shift once more. He could give with one hand and take with the other, as he wished, so his fortunes could recover within a few years, with new estates granted to him, even if it would sting to think of the possibility that his property might be turned over to Anne's family.

The Boleyns had gained far too much over the past decade, most of it at the expense of others, for whom they seemed to spare little thought – after his release from prison and restoration to court, George Boleyn had willingly accepted many of the stewardships held by the Seymour family, as though they had not already lost enough with their banishment from court, while Jane's reputation suffered badly because it was known that Henry had wanted to make her his next Queen – for him to feel anything but disgusted at the idea of their coffers being further enriched by his estates but, if it came to that, he could reconcile himself with the idea.

When he reached the door of Henry's Privy Chamber – and, thankfully, Henry had not commanded that he was to be brought there under escort, like a prisoner, making his disgrace visible to all – the page outside seemed reluctant to meet his gaze. Like everybody else at court, he must surely know that the Duke of Suffolk was out of favour with the King and, like so many people, he was reluctant to even look at somebody who was out of favour, as though he believed that he might be tainted if he met his eyes, or as if he might be accused of harbouring sympathy towards him, something that would do him no good, especially these days.

He simply inclined his head slightly, in deference to Brandon's rank as a duke, and then he knocked on the heavy oak door before pushing it open and announcing the guest. "The Duke of Suffolk, Your Majesty." He said, looking relieved when Henry simply nodded and waved him away.

As soon as he crossed the threshold and the door was closed behind him, Brandon fell to his knees, keeping his head bowed instead of looking Henry in the eye. "Your Majesty, I beg you to forgive me if I have offended you." Although he knew that he had to apologize, he couldn't bring himself to apologize for what he had said to Anne; his reproaches regarding her conduct were amply justified, and he was not willing to say that they weren't, even at a time like this, so he hoped that the more general apology would satisfy his friend.

He heard a small snort of laughter and lifted his head a fraction, enough to be able to see Boleyn out of the corner of his eye. The other man was standing to Henry's side, a satisfied expression on his face as he watched Brandon plead for mercy. He said nothing, for which Brandon was thankful, but it was certain that he was noting every detail of this exchange, ready to regale his daughter with stories of Brandon's humiliation and of the King's sternness towards him.

Henry's eyes were cold as he regarded the other man. "Have you begged Her Majesty the Queen to forgive you for your behaviour towards her?" He asked quietly, although he must surely have been able to guess that Brandon was unlikely to do this, not if he could help it. When Brandon shook his head, Henry raised an eyebrow in mock-surprise, feigning astonishment. "No? Why not? Do you not think that your conduct was deplorable, Your Grace, and that you ought to apologize to the Queen for your treatment of her? It was not what I would have expected of a man of your standing." The stress he placed on the mode of address he used when speaking to Brandon, along with the references to his status as a duke, were unmistakeable, as was the implication that Brandon might find himself losing his title as Duke of Suffolk, just as John Seymour was stripped of his knighthood, punished for daring to imagine that his daughter might become Queen.

Brandon felt a chill of apprehension at the thought of losing his title.

It was not as important to him as it would be to another man, and even when Henry told him that he was to be raised to the highest ranks of the peerage, he had known that even their friendship did not make him worthy of the honour he was gifted with. Had he been a single man, he would have been able to accept the idea more easily but he was not. His family would be affected if he lost his title and was demoted to plain Master Charles Brandon again; Catherine would no longer be a duchess, entitled to be one of the highest-ranking ladies of the court, and Edward, the nephew of the King and the only surviving grandson of Henry the Seventh, would not even belong to the nobility any more, his rank would be no higher than any ordinary gentleman's son.

It wasn't right that his whole family should suffer for his actions.

If punishment was due, he should be the only one to bear it.

"I... after everything that happened, Your Majesty, I thought that I shouldn't impose on the Queen, and that she wouldn't want to see me." Brandon bluffed, hoping that he could make his excuse convincing enough for Henry to accept it. "It might have upset her."

"That's true." Henry agreed, far more readily than even Brandon could have hoped he would. "But you do regret your behaviour towards her, Your Grace? And I am sure that you are anxious to make amends?" He asked mildly, not expecting Brandon to deny this.

Henry had something in mind, and Brandon knew him well enough to know from his expression that, whatever it was, it would not be pleasant, but all he could do was nod. "Yes."

"Good." Henry favoured him with a thin, cold smile, one mirrored by the expression on Boleyn's face. Whatever he had planned, Brandon knew that Boleyn had already been made privy to his intentions and that he approved of them, which didn't bode well for him. "As you know, Queen Anne has long hoped that our beloved daughter, the Princess Royal, will marry the youngest son of the King of France, the Duke of Angouleme. She and I both hope for a strong alliance between England and France, uniting us in the face of the Emperor's aggression."

Brandon forced himself to keep all traces of dismay and anger from his face, knowing well what Anne's chief motive in advocating a French match for Elizabeth, and a French alliance for England was. Of all the monarchs in Europe, the Emperor would be the last one to willingly accept her as Queen or her child as the King's legitimate heir, and the first who would speak up for Mary, pushing for her restoration during Henry's lifetime and championing her claim to the throne ahead of Elizabeth's when he died, perhaps even by force if his military resources were not committed elsewhere.

If Anne could manage to ensure that England would ally with France rather than with Spain, then that would go a long way towards ensuring that Henry would not restore his elder daughter ahead of little Elizabeth. He would not have the same motive to do so, especially if Elizabeth was married to a French prince, as that would mean that King Francis would want to see her succeed Henry when the time came, as his son would then rule by her side as King Consort, and his grandson would eventually inherit the English throne. He certainly would not encourage the restoration of the rival of his son and daughter-in-law, he was far more likely to oppose it.

For a prize like that, King Francis would willingly fight the Emperor – and, even if he was reluctant to commit his resources to war with the Emperor over the English succession, it would not be too difficult for him to send mercenaries to murder Mary before she could lay claim to the throne.

The natural daughter of the King was unlikely to be well-guarded against harm.

It would be easy for an assassin to find her.

Mary was lucky last time the negotiations took place, when King Francis not only rejected the idea of a betrothal between Elizabeth and his youngest son but also proposed a match between Mary and the Dauphin, making it plain that he viewed her as legitimate and as the rightful princess but it was different now. The Emperor and King Francis were locked in conflict again, and Francis would want to ally with Henry, which meant that he would accept the idea of a marriage between his son and Elizabeth if that was the cost of Henry's friendship, essentially declaring that he viewed Mary as a bastard... and if there was any hint that the other monarch might regard Mary as legitimate or as the rightful heir, Brandon couldn't convince himself that Henry would not be prepared to send his own daughter to the scaffold rather than allowing her to threaten Elizabeth's future.

He could not say any of that, however, not now.

He could not beg Henry to reconsider, or to point out that he should give himself some time before he committed himself to securing Elizabeth's future as England's Queen, time that would allow him to reflect on the issue, to get to know Mary again and to see that, given the choice between his two daughters, Mary was a better prospect as England's next ruler.

Nothing he said would convince Henry, and speaking up would only make things worse.

All he could do was nod, and smile as though this was good news.

"King Francis is sending the Admiral of France to negotiate the match," Henry continued, "the French ambassador has just informed me of that. Lord Wiltshire will be responsible for making arrangements to receive the Admiral but you will assist him, in whatever way he requires – since I know that you regret your behaviour towards the Queen, I am sure that you will be anxious to make amends with her by ensuring that the Admiral's visit goes smoothly, and that it is made clear to all that the Princess Royal is the legitimate heiress to the throne, not the bastard, Mary – we don't want foolish, ignorant people thinking that Mary is a princess, do we?" He asked pointedly, letting Brandon know why this form of punishment had been chosen for him.

Under other circumstances, it would have been an extraordinarily mild penalty for Henry to exact, and might even have been seen as a token punishment, for the sake of appearances, rather than something that was intended to give Brandon cause to repent of his actions, as proof that their friendship was strong enough or that Anne was so far out of favour to ensure that drastic measures would not be taken, even when she was insulted and roughly treated by one of the courtiers, but these were not ordinary circumstances, far from it.

Brandon was not just being punished for the way he had spoken to Anne. He was also being called upon to pay the price for his slip of the tongue, when he referred to Mary as Princess, a slip that either Anne or her father must have reported, knowing well that Henry would react angrily to anybody hinting that they viewed Mary as a legitimate princess, and that he would view that as defiance of his express commands that the young girl was to be regarded as a bastard by all, and treated as though her standing at court was low.

He had to see to it that the match Anne wanted would be arranged, without hindrance, even though it was a match that would work against Mary.

He would have to constantly stress the fact that Anne was Queen, that Elizabeth was the Princess and pretend that he viewed Mary as nothing but a bastard, and a disobedient one at that. Because Boleyn would be chiefly responsible for the negotiations – and Brandon balked at the thought of having to run errands for the man and behave like a secretary or servant, there to do his bidding – he would not be able to allow himself to give the slightest hint that he disagreed with Mary being downgraded, or that there would be many who would champion her if Elizabeth and the Duke of Angouleme tried to take the throne ahead of her.

This betrothal would weaken her, and Brandon would have to ensure that it did.

He didn't hear Henry dismiss Boleyn but, a few moments later, he registered that he and Henry were alone and that his friend was staring coldly at him.

"I hope that you understand how important it is for me that this betrothal is arranged, Your Grace." He said, in a cold, stern tone. "The Queen wishes it, and so do I. Make no mistake, Charles, if Anne and I are not blessed with a son, Elizabeth will succeed me. I intend to make sure of that, whatever I need to do to ensure that she becomes Queen, whatever the cost. I will not allow Mary to threaten this country with civil war, do you understand me?"

Brandon would have liked to point out that, if Henry's goal was to avoid civil war, the solution should be clear to him; instead of disinheriting Mary, he should restore her as the first rightful heir to the throne and place little Elizabeth as second in line after her sister, so that there would be no need for Mary, or those acting on her behalf, to wage civil war when Elizabeth tried to take the throne ahead of the sister whom many would agree had the first rightful claim, but he didn't dare to say anything of the sort, knowing that his words would be far from welcome.

The menace in Henry's tone was also troubling to him.

If he was unable to secure Elizabeth's acceptance as the sole legitimate heir to the throne, if he was not satisfied that there could be no chance that his people might one day mount an uprising in his eldest daughter's name, flocking to her banner to ensure that she would not be deprived of what many of the English people saw as her rights, how far might he go?

He had ranted against his daughter before, deploring Mary's unwillingness to take the Oath and accusing her of treasonous disobedience, but might he be prepared to take the step of prosecuting her for it, as so many others were prosecuted when they refused? If he did, might the people let him get away with it? Anne's growing popularity in the aftermath of her release was a threat to Mary's standing in the people's hearts, but Brandon couldn't believe that she was so popular that the people might be willing to see Mary led to the scaffold for her sake and her child's.

God forbid that it should ever go so far!

He nodded in response to Henry's words, but he said nothing.

"It is your responsibility to ensure that the Admiral's visit goes smoothly, and that the betrothal is arranged. I will be holding you personally responsible for it. If anything goes wrong, if the Admiral is not satisfied with the hospitality of my court and if, for any reason, this betrothal is not arranged to my satisfaction, you will pay the price, do you understand?"

"Your Majesty, I promise that I will do everything I can to make this betrothal happen..." Brandon began, but Henry cut him off with a lifted hand.

"You misunderstand me, Your Grace. You will be held responsible if _anything_ happens to prevent this betrothal, no matter what the reason for it is, and whether or not it is anything to do with you. If there are any problems with the banquets and celebrations in the Admiral's honour, you will be held responsible. If the terms of the marriage contract are not agreeable to me and to Queen Anne, you will be held responsible. If there are any attempts, by anybody, to thwart this betrothal, to slander the Princess Royal as a bastard or to deny Anne's title as Queen, you will be held responsible. If the Admiral's ship sinks on the way to England, or if the Duke of Angouleme dies before the betrothal can be formalized, you will be held responsible. Do you understand now?" He asked menacingly, leaning forward a little as he spoke. Brandon had to resist the urge to take a step back, away from the coldness of his friend and sovereign's expression. "You had better pray that King Francis is sincere about this betrothal, Charles, and that the Admiral is given no possible reason to work against it. Otherwise, you will be the one to pay the price."

"Yes, Your Majesty." Brandon responded, feeling his stomach knot in dread.

The fact that King Francis was showing himself to be willing to open negotiations between himself and Henry regarding the possibility of a betrothal between his son and Henry's daughter was an encouraging sign, but it was not a guarantee, by any means. King Francis could change his mind, at a moment's notice, or he might have no intention of allowing the marriage and might plan to use the negotiations as nothing more than a warning to the Emperor, a sign that, if he so chose, he had the option of allying with Henry against him, and was prepared to go so far as to accept Elizabeth as the legitimate heir to the English throne, implying that the Emperor's cousin was a bastard if, by doing so, he would win an ally who would help him crush the Emperor.

If the match was arranged, and King Francis formally committed to a betrothal that would indicate his acceptance of Elizabeth as Henry's legitimate daughter, the Princess Royal, then that would bode ill for Mary, and it was all but certain that others would follow King Francis' example, in time. If other European powers committed themselves to recognizing and supporting Elizabeth's claim to the throne, then not even the Emperor would be able to guarantee Mary's rights when Henry died, especially if he lived long enough to see Elizabeth reach womanhood and for most of Mary's childbearing years to pass her by while she remained unmarried. If he was occupied with his own affairs and conflicts, then he might not even bother to continue to push for his cousin's restoration.

His own interests would come first, always.

However, if King Francis had no true intention of allowing the match, if he had sent the Admiral to England with orders that the betrothal was not to be arranged and that they were only going through the motions to appease the King of England for the sake of an alliance, with no intention of actually committing to a betrothal that was likely to displease the pope, Henry would not accept that as an excuse and Brandon would pay the price for a failure he could never have prevented.

"Because you harmed and insulted the Queen, and because you upset the Princess Royal, you will now work on their behalf," Henry told him. "I think it a fitting punishment, and I hope that you will prove to me that I was not mistaken when I decided to show you such leniency."

In many ways, Brandon would have preferred banishment, or the confiscation of some of his estates, to having this task laid upon him. It was bad enough that he should have to work for Anne's benefit, but having to work against Mary was worse... though, under the circumstances, anything done on Anne's behalf, or little Elizabeth's, anything that would strengthen their positions would work against Mary, weakening her position and making her restoration far less likely.

Mary had lost so much, how could he be the man who took more from her?

He hoped that it was over, that Henry would be satisfied with this and that he would be content in the knowledge that he had gotten his message across and ensured that Brandon knew that he could not ever think of supporting Mary, not if he wanted to keep the friendship of his King, but his wish was not granted.

Henry added one more condition, charging him with a task that Brandon would never have wanted to be charged with, and all he could do was nod.

* * *

"He wants you to do what?" Catherine Brandon hoped that she had misheard her husband, or that he might have been making a joke, albeit one in exceptionally poor taste, anything as long as it meant that he had not been charged with the task that he described to her, a task that was so objectionable to them both and one that they would never have wanted to see anybody called upon to perform, themselves least of all. "He cannot have been serious!"

"Oh, he was serious." Brandon told her grimly. "As serious as he has ever been about anything. I am to work for Boleyn when he is making arrangements for the Admiral's visit, and to do whatever he tells me to – and he's going to love that!" He added grimly; usually, it would be unthinkable for a duke to be made subservient to an earl in a matter like this, so Boleyn was sure to relish every moment of having the freedom to command him and to ensure that he gave him the most demeaning tasks he dared to give the Duke of Suffolk. "The betrothal is to work out, and to be finalized and, after that, I am to be responsible for seeing to it that Mary takes the Oath. Before September, and Elizabeth's birthday, I am to have persuaded Mary to take the Oath and to confess her illegitimacy. Henry isn't prepared to let her threaten Elizabeth's succession."

"But surely Princess Mary would never agree to..." Catherine trailed off.

For their own family's sake, it was better for them if Mary took the Oath, as commanded, and if she was prepared to take the Oath, Mary would ensure her own safety, and perhaps a partial restoration to her father's good graces – and even if the King would not be prepared to restore her as a princess, he would treat his daughter kindly if she submitted to his will – but she knew Mary well enough to be able to imagine what it would do to her spirits if, after years of refusing, years of standing by what was right, defending her mother's good name and her own rights, she was forced to make a declaration repudiating her mother and declaring herself a bastard.

She would view it as a betrayal of her mother if, after all the years that Queen Katherine spent fighting against anybody who tried to bully her into renouncing her child's rights as the King's legitimate heir, even when she was left in poverty and isolation or threatened with execution, she gave in and told her father what he wanted to hear, and she would not forgive herself for it, even if she knew that she had been left with little alternative but to comply.

If she gave in, it would haunt her, likely for the rest of her life.

How could the King even contemplate demanding such a thing of his own child?

Hadn't Mary already suffered enough?

"She's not going to want to take the Oath, I know that much." Brandon agreed. "But there were a lot of other people who didn't want to take it but who agreed to, when they knew what the consequences for refusing would be." If grown men could be cowed into taking the Oath, how could a young girl, one who had never known anything but the luxurious, pampered existence of a princess and an adored only child for most of her life, until her father remarried and her world was turned upside down, be expected to stand firm much longer, especially when she would be heaped with humiliation and threats, when she would know that her own father would not be willing to recognize her until she did as he demanded and when even those whom she might consider her friends and supporters would be urging her to surrender.

It was remarkable that she had been able to hold firm for so long.

"It's wrong." Catherine stated flatly. "The King shouldn't be asking this of Princess Mary, or of you."

"He's the King." Brandon pointed out grimly, deciding against pointing out that it was his use of the title of Princess for Mary that had led to him being forced to take on this task, or that it was unwise for them to use the title, even in private, especially when he was out of favour with the King. Whether or not they agreed with Henry's decisions, there was nothing that they could do to stop him. He had absolute power, and he knew how to use it against those who dared to stand against him or to deny him what it was he wanted, even if he had once cared for them.

Not even Henry's own child could call herself safe from his wrath.

"I can't believe that, less than two months ago, we thought that we were going to be rid of that woman, once and for all, and look at the damage she's doing now." Catherine remarked sourly, remembering how hopeful she, like many of those who loathed Anne and who longed to see Mary restored as Princess of Wales and heir to the throne, had been during the weeks Anne spent in prison, how close they seemed to come to everything being set right.

Everybody knew that Jane Seymour, like her family, supported Mary and they could be hopeful about her restoration as soon as Jane married the King, at which time she intended to do everything in her power to convince the King to welcome his child back to court. It seemed as though it would be only a matter of time before Henry reached out to his daughter, wanting to please his new wife and to reunite his family, and only a matter of time before the royal family, and the court, could put the past behind them and move on, as though Anne had never existed.

Then Anne won.

At the eleventh hour, when all hope should have been lost for her, she won.

A priest would say that God knew His business best, and that if He had decided to intercede on Anne's behalf and save her from the scaffold, He would have His reasons for doing so, even if His reasons were not understood, but Catherine couldn't see why He would save Anne at Mary's expense.

"I don't think this is her fault, not entirely – he's doing it to please her, or at least partly to please her." Brandon amended honestly, thinking that, even if Anne was not an issue, Henry's present attitude indicated that he would still demand Mary's submission and would not be willing to simply let his daughter off the hook where the Oath was concerned. Anne or no Anne, he would still want to see Mary humble herself and admit that she and, most importantly of all, Katherine were wrong to ever think of challenging his will or questioning the decisions he had made over the past few years. "If Anne was the one behind it, she wouldn't want me to be the one who had to get Mary to take the Oath, she'd never trust me with something like that, it's far too important a job to be given to somebody she knows hates her and wants to see Mary restored. She'd want somebody else to be the one to do it, her father or her brother or her uncle – if she trusts Norfolk enough these days for that." He added, remembering that, although he might be Anne's uncle, Norfolk was out of his niece's good graces because of the part he had played in her trial and conviction.

Anne would be sure that Brandon would be soft with Mary, that even though he was charged with making the young girl submit to her father's will, he would do everything he could to surreptitiously bolster Mary's resistance, even as he outwardly urged her to comply with her father's wishes. She would be certain that he would do all he could to subtly let her know that, as bleak as things appeared to be now, there were still many people in England and Europe who believed in the justice of her cause and who would stand up for her if Henry went so far as to threaten her safety. Anne would want to know that somebody like her father, somebody who would stress, over and over, that all hope was lost for Mary and that the King would willingly send her to the scaffold if she dared to persist in her defiance, would be the one to speak to Mary, to know that Mary would be made to believe that she was alone and friendless, unable to hold out hope of her father relenting, and that her submission was her only hope of salvation.

She would never trust Brandon with that, especially when her own child's future was at stake.

She did not trust him enough for that.

But if Anne was not responsible, Henry had to be.

The conclusion was as inescapable as it was unwelcome.

It was far more preferable to think that Anne was responsible for what was happening to Mary, and the Henry was only going along with her whims in order to please her. If they were wronging Anne by attributing such malice to her, then they would have to face the ugly truth about the kind of man that their King had become, and Brandon didn't want that.

"But why would the King want to punish Princess Mary, when she's done nothing to deserve it?" Catherine asked, finding it incomprehensible that any parent, let alone the doting father that the King once was to Mary and still was to Elizabeth, would ever be able to remain estranged from his own child, would be able to threaten his daughter like that and be so determined to break her spirit and see her bow to his will, even when he must know what it would cost her if she did this, mentally, emotionally and spiritually.

It was cruel to demand that a daughter should repudiate her mother in order to have the love of her father once more.

"She is defying him, that's enough as far as the King is concerned." Brandon told her grimly. "He wants Mary to take the Oath, she's refusing to take it and he hates that."

"Could he be prepared to execute her for it, if she doesn't take it?" Catherine couldn't imagine that the King would dare to go so far; the people had loved Mary when she was a child, and many of them had remained loyal to her and to Queen Katherine after the King set them aside in favour of Anne and the daughter she had borne him. They had recognized that Mary was being wronged, and they had not liked that. The King and Master Cromwell may have seen to it that every adult English subject took the Oath, vowing that they would support Anne's children as heirs to the throne, but that did not change the fact that, for many, Mary was and would remain the true, rightful heir. "The people would never stand for that!"

Brandon did not point out that, a decade ago, they could have said that the people would never stand for the idea of a cardinal, a Prince of the Church, being sent to the scaffold because he refused to affix his name to a piece of paper and repudiate the authority of the pope, or for the execution of Sir Thomas More, a popular and respected man with a reputation for learning and honesty, for the same crime, but last year, they were proven wrong.

There was some grumbling over it, and considerable bitterness – though most of it was directed at Anne, the perceived cause of the upheaval in England, rather than at Henry, who had signed the death warrants – but that had died down, in time. Henry was still able to appear in public, before his people, without having to worry that they would attack him, and no serious moves were made to challenge him as King, or to raise a rebellion in Mary's name and crown her as Queen instead of her father.

A decade ago, he would have said that the English people would revolt at the idea of their beloved Princess Mary being cut off from the court, forced to take on the role of a servant in the household of the child who had supplanted her, and of their Good Queen Katherine being banished from the court, where she belonged, and shut away in a dismal country manor to die, but as with Fisher and More, there were grumblings and outcries but no serious attempts by the people to rebel on behalf of the wronged ladies, not even when Katherine died, though many considered it a great shame that a lady of her standing should have been left to die in exile, cut off from her only child.

Almost a year after More's execution, and not four months after Katherine's death, there was considerable discontent when Anne was arrested and conducted to the Tower herself. Brandon would have thought that, given the people's love for and loyalty to Henry, and their long-standing hatred of Anne, they would be glad to see her led to her death, after all the pain and strife she had brought to England, especially now that she had betrayed the King who loved her and raised her as high as any woman in England could be raised. He would have thought that the men would resent her for having made a fool of their sovereign lord, and that the women would feel vindicated, able to say that they had recognized Anne for a whore from the very beginning.

The charges laid against her were ones that should have filled people with disgust, particularly the charge of incest with her brother, and ensured that none of them would ever contemplate supporting an adulteress, but despite the charges, despite Anne's previous unpopularity, they had been outraged at the thought that she was to be arrested, protesting that no court had the right to try an anointed Queen – seemingly forgetting that many of them had persistently denied Anne's right to that title since her coronation, insisting that it belonged to Katherine alone – and poking holes in the charges made against her, insisting that no woman in her right mind, let alone a Queen, would take _four_ lovers, when she knew that she would pay for _one_ with her life.

They were still indignant at the idea of Anne's arrest and near execution, and they still harboured anger towards Henry for allowing it to happen but Brandon strongly suspected that the only reason why that anger was persisting was that Anne was still alive. She still went out amongst the people, and distributed charity generously. Some courtiers estimated that, in the past month and a half, Anne had distributed more alms to the poor than Katherine used to distribute in a year. She kept little Elizabeth by her side when they passed out small purses of coins to the needy, so that she was not just reminding the people of the generous Queen that they would have lost if she had been executed, she was reminding them of the young child who would have been left motherless if Anne's enemies had had their way.

Slowly but surely, she was winning public support away from Mary and directing it towards herself and her child, ensuring that the people would come to view Elizabeth as the Queen they wanted.

However, it would have been different if she had died.

If she had died, then the anger over her execution would have died down, just as the anger over Fisher and More and Katherine's deaths had. When Henry married Jane Seymour, she would be accepted as his wife and as Queen and, given time, the people would have come to love and respect her, especially as she would have treated Mary with kindness and respect. The people would have been pleased to see their King happy, with a good woman, and once a prince was born, they would be overjoyed that England had a male heir at last.

Anne would have been forgotten – _should_ have been forgotten – but her guardian angel must have been watching over her and working diligently on her behalf, so she was granted a reprieve, one that saved her from death and little Elizabeth the disgrace of being known as the daughter of a whore and a traitor, but at the cost of the happiness of others, particularly Jane Seymour and Mary.

If Henry had not released her from the Tower, if he had allowed the executions to proceed instead of exonerating the accused and ordering their immediate release and restoration, then sooner or later, he would have been forgiven for it, and the memory of what happened would fade from the people's minds. In time, they might even have come to be thankful for what happened, if Anne's death meant peace for the country.

Brandon couldn't dismiss the possibility that the same thing would happen if Mary was killed – and Henry wouldn't need to formally charge his daughter with a crime, and execute her for it; poison or smothering would serve his purpose, as it could be announced that Mary, who was known not to enjoy robust health, had died of natural causes.

There would be anger at first, and since Anne was well on her way to winning the hearts of the people, it was likely that suspicion would be directed at Henry rather than at her but, in time, it would die down and, without Mary around, there would be few in England who would dispute Elizabeth's succession rights. Even if they believed her legitimacy to be doubtful, she would be a preferable alternative to civil war.

He wished that he could be sure that Henry wouldn't be prepared to kill Mary.

If he could be sure of that, he could ensure that, while he went through the motions of exerting pressure on Mary to take the Oath, warning her of what the consequences would be if she continued to refuse to do so, he would make sure that she knew that it was not the only way, that if she refused, she would be safe and would not pay the price for refusing, even if he found himself in trouble with Henry for it.

But he couldn't be sure.

* * *

"Look at me, Mama!" Elizabeth demanded, holding out the skirts of her new satin gown as she twirled around her Mama's apartment, smiling as she heard the ladies admire her new gown and say what a beautiful girl she was. Her new gown was purple, the colour for royalty which was why Elizabeth was allowed to wear it, since she was a princess, and she would be allowed to wear her new coronet from her Papa, and lots and lots of diamonds. The gold embroidery on her gown sparkled as she twirled and the shining threads caught the light.

It was one of the loveliest gowns she had ever had, and she was very happy with it.

"The Duke of Angouleme is going to be a very lucky bridegroom, Your Highness." Nan Saville said indulgently, smiling at Elizabeth's antics. The little girl had been the darling of Anne's ladies since she was a tiny baby, before she was sent away to Hatfield, and Nan was very fond of her. She could see from the faint colour rising in Lady Bryan's cheeks that the governess was a little wary of her charge's vanity, afraid that she might get into trouble if the Queen thought that she wasn't teaching Elizabeth modesty and trying to curb her vanity, as she ought to, but she need not have worried. Queen Anne was very proud of her daughter, justifiably so, and she didn't care who knew it. "He will have a very beautiful bride one day."

Elizabeth paused in her twirling, looking up with a wary expression on her pretty face. "But not for a long time." It was very exciting that she was going to be betrothed soon, like a big girl, but she didn't want to be a wife, not for years and years, when she was a lot bigger than she was now. For now, she wanted to be her Mama's darling girl and her Papa's jewel of England. She could be the Duchess of Angouleme later, when she was grown-up.

"No, sweetheart." Anne reassured her, kneeling down to Elizabeth's level to straighten the hem of her gown, and kissing her cheek, brushing back the fair curls. "It's going to be a very long time before you're old enough to get married – but France is a lovely country, and the French court is wonderful, you'll love it there when the time comes, I promise."

Elizabeth considered this for a moment before nodding, her face brightening as a thought struck her. "And if I'm Queen after Papa, then the Duke can come to England to live here with me instead of me going to France to live with him, can't he?" She directed her question at her mother, noticing the gasps and mutterings from some of her Mama's ladies and her own at her words, but paying no attention to them.

"That's right, my darling." Anne told her with a smile.

People were extremely reluctant to allude to the fact that, in the absence of a prince, Elizabeth would be the heir to the throne and if that was the case, then instead of going to France when she was twelve, so that she could marry the Duke of Angouleme and become a member of the French royal family, it was more likely that the young French prince would be the one to leave his home country and travel to their court, to be honoured as though he was a Prince of England and prepared for the day when he would rule by Elizabeth's side as King Consort, learning what he would need to learn for his future role, and give the English people a chance to get to know and love the young couple so that, when the time came, they would welcome them.

Anne thought that it was foolish to behave as though there was no possibility of this happening. If the expressions on some of the faces of the ladies present were any indication, Elizabeth's words might have been blasphemous, or else the toddler might have ill-wished a brother who was still to be born by mentioning the possibility of his succession, but that was nonsense.

Henry might like to think that they would have a son in time, but he had been the one to say that they would never have male issue together, insisting that God would not give them a son before she was arrested, and he was also taking steps to secure their daughter's place as Princess Royal and as his legitimate heir, making sure that everybody knew she was to be the next ruler, in the absence of a prince. He might not have taken the step of bestowing the title of Princess of Wales on their daughter, as he had with Mary, which was understandable since Anne was still young and could still be fertile, but he was thinking of the possibility of granting it to her, years down the line, if she remained their only child, and he was prepared for the possibility of her succession.

It would certainly make the match more appealing to King Francis if he believed that there was a good chance that he might see his son as King Consort of England, and even if nobody actually alluded to that possibility when the marriage negotiations were in progress, it was certain that they'd all be thinking of it.

"Will the Duke be coming to see me?" Elizabeth asked. If they were going to get married one day, she thought that they should see one another first, so that they wouldn't be strangers on their wedding day, but her Mama shook her head in response to her question. "Why not?"

"He has his lessons, sweetheart. He has to study very hard, all princes do, and he can't leave his tutors to come on a long journey to England, not this time." Anne explained, hoping that the explanation would satisfy her clever little girl.

"Oh." Elizabeth accepted the explanation but it was a bit disappointing for her. She would have liked to meet the Duke, and for them to dance together at the banquet.

If she was going to marry him some day, she wanted to get to know him.

"The Admiral of France will be coming, though – you didn't meet him the last time he came to England." Anne said, deciding against telling her daughter the story about what had happened the last time the negotiations for a match with the Duke of Angouleme were entered into. The Admiral had repudiated the match, on his master's behalf, insulting Elizabeth by denying her legitimacy and implying that Mary was legitimate, but he had taken his time before doing so, content to string them along and knowing that he could get away with being rude as long as his hosts wanted the match. Not only had they spent a great deal of time and money laying out suitable entertainments and hospitality for the Admiral and his retinue, envoys were also sent to Hatfield, so that Elizabeth, then an infant, might be inspected to determine her suitability.

Anne's daughter, the Princess of England and the heir to the throne, was displayed before the visiting envoys, ready for them to inspect her, to judge whether or not she was suitable to be a bride for the young Duke, first in all her splendour as a princess, in carefully chosen garments that Anne had selected to show her baby off to her best advantage, and later naked, so that they could see for themselves that her skin was unblemished and that no deformities marred her tiny body. She was paraded before them like a cow driven to market, ready for prospective buyers to examine her and determine whether she was worthy.

And after all that, she was rejected.

She hoped that it would not happen a second time. This time, King Francis had to agree to the betrothal, had to show that he knew that she was Queen and that Elizabeth was legitimate, and provide them with the reassurance of knowing that he was not going to pledge himself to recognizing Mary instead, siding with the Emperor rather than with Henry.

She didn't want to think about what it would mean if Francis denied them again.

There was a knock on the door, and Madge hurried to open it, curtseying deeply when she saw that Henry was the one standing outside, then ushering him in. "The King is here, madam." She told Anne, curtseying a second time before retreating to stand with the other ladies.

"Papa!" Elizabeth ran over to her father, giggling in delight as he swung her up into his arms, spinning her around in the air before giving her a kiss on the cheek and setting her on her feet, ruffling her hair with one hand. "I have a new gown. Mama picked it out." She announced proudly, beaming up at him and twirling so that he could see it properly.

"And it looks beautiful on you, my precious – doesn't it, ladies?" He asked, smiling at the chorus of agreement, and the assurances that Elizabeth was a beautiful little girl and a credit to him. He loved to hear his lovely daughter praised and he agreed with the ladies that she was truly a princess to be proud of, the loveliest daughter that a man could ever hope to be blessed with. His smile faded from his face when he saw Mary standing in the far corner of the room, along with a couple of Elizabeth's other attendants.

The expression on the girl's face was sullen when he entered the room, showing her unhappiness at seeing the preparations being made for Elizabeth's betrothal and her resentment at the thought that her little sister was the one being honoured as a princess while she was relegated to the role of a servant, as was fitting for a bastard, but when she saw him, she brightened, looking at him hopefully, as though she expected that the sight of her would be enough to make him forgive her for her obstinacy and vow to restore her as Princess of Wales.

He resented her for looking at him like that.

He resented her for acting as though she expected that he would hold out his arms to embrace her as soon as he saw that she was there, ignoring Anne and Elizabeth and having eyes only for her, as though she had cause to expect that she would be welcomed back into her father's good graces, with nothing more than a hopeful smile, and for pretending to be his loving daughter when she had shown, by her disobedience, that she was not even a loyal subject. When she finally accepted the truth, and admitted that his marriage to her mother was invalid and accursed, when she accepted that Anne was England's rightful Queen and that Elizabeth was England's true princess, he would be happy to treat her as his daughter once more but until then, she would get no affection from him.

She needed to learn that.

"Lady Mary." He made sure that his voice was sharp and stern when he addressed her, and that his expression was devoid of affection so that she wouldn't get any ideas, wouldn't think that she could expect him to be soft with her and let her get away with her previous defiance, much less allow her to continue to challenge the rights of the trueborn heir by claiming the title of Princess. "What are you doing in Her Majesty's apartment? I gave orders that you were not to be permitted to leave the Princess Royal's quarters without permission, and without proper supervision."

The last thing he needed or wanted was for Mary to drum up support among the courtiers as she mingled among them, finding people who were foolish enough to cling to the Bishop of Rome rather than accepting that Henry was the Supreme Head of the Church of England, called to that role by God Himself, or who had warm memories of Katherine from the years when she was still thought of as Queen, and who would cleave to Katherine's daughter because of that.

He would not have his own courtiers plotting against his rightful heir.

"I told Lady Bryan that all of Elizabeth's ladies should come down to help get everything ready for the Admiral's visit." Anne spoke up, although she was paying more attention to Elizabeth's little garments than to him, fussing over a dainty silk petticoat and inspecting the embroidery. "That includes Lady Mary, who is here with my permission, and under Lady Bryan's supervision." Her voice was matter of fact, as though he should not be surprised by her decision to include Mary in the group preparing Elizabeth for the visit, and Henry nodded.

"If that's what you want, sweetheart." Henry said, giving her a smile. He hoped that she would return it but she didn't. His urge to please her was strong, and the best way he could think of doing this was through Elizabeth, knowing how much Anne adored their child. At a time like this, jewellery or manors or similar tokens were poor choices for gifts, and even poorer compensation for the apology that he could not bring himself to voice. "Lady Mary may be one of the ladies who will attend the Princess Royal at the banquet." He announced, his tone indicating that he viewed this as a favour he was conferring on Mary, as though his elder daughter ought to think herself honoured to be permitted to serve her younger sister. He looked across at Mary, seeing from the expression on her face that she was devastated by what she was hearing, but he couldn't allow himself to be moved by her distress, not if he ever wanted things with Anne to be right again. "You will assist in serving the Princess Royal at the table." He informed her coldly.

It would act as a signal to the Admiral of France, if he recognized Mary, that his master need have no fears about agreeing to betroth Elizabeth to his son. King Francis would not need to worry that, should Henry and Anne have no son, he might choose to name Mary as heir to the throne ahead of Elizabeth, cheating the Duke of Angouleme out of the consort's crown, and Francis' grandson out of the throne. The Admiral would be able to tell his master that the King of England had no intention of treating his illegitimate daughter with the honour due to a princess, and the Imperial ambassador would be able to relay the same to his master.

It also wouldn't do any harm for his courtiers to see Mary in a subservient position to Elizabeth, to make it clear to them that her restoration simply wasn't going to happen, no matter how stubborn Mary was and no matter how powerful her wretched cousin was. The Emperor would never be able to browbeat Henry into legitimising his daughter and it was time they accepted that.

Mary wanted to rebel, he could see that much from the expression on her face.

She wanted to refuse, to insist that she could not and would not demean herself by waiting on Elizabeth, especially in the presence of foreign dignitaries, who would report back to their masters that the King of England's natural daughter was commanded to take the role of a servant before their eyes. She wanted to repeat her assertions that she was the rightful Princess of Wales, while Elizabeth was illegitimate and had no right to her titles, and that she should never be commanded to wait upon anybody else. However, she didn't say anything, and although it was plain that she was unhappy with his command, Henry knew that she would obey it, she was too like her mother not to.

Katherine had believed that it was her duty to obey him, in all matters not concerning her conscience, and she would have taught Mary to think that. However much Katherine had insisted that she was his wife and that, as such, her place was by his side, when he commanded her to leave the court and to reside at the More, she obeyed him, just as she obeyed him when he commanded that she was not to receive visitors without his permission, and that she was not to be permitted to visit Mary or to write to her. He had thought, at one point, that there was a risk that Katherine might seek to muster an army against him if he ever allowed her and Mary to be together, but now he realized that he had worried needlessly.

Katherine would never have taken the step of inciting a rebellion against him, not even when he cast her aside, or when he sent Mary to wait on Elizabeth, something she would have learned of through Chapuys, and that was certain to make her feel angry and unhappy on their daughter's behalf. He could have sent Katherine to the scaffold and she would not have tried to incite his subjects to rebel against him.

It would be the same with Mary. She would serve Elizabeth because he ordered it... so why wouldn't she take the Oath when he commanded her to?

She pretended to be an obedient daughter but she was only obedient on her terms.

What was the value of filial loyalty if it was conditional?

He watched Mary as she nodded her head, curtseying deeply.

"I am Your Majesty's most humble and obedient daughter." Mary said quietly as she made her curtsey. She kept her head held high as she rose, feeling that she had to behave with the dignity of a princess. Her father was the King, and she had to obey him, even if he commanded that she should publicly serve little Elizabeth, but she was determined that when she did it, she would do it with her head held high. She wouldn't complain or whimper, and she would behave like a Princess should behave, showing everybody that, no matter what she was called and no matter what she was made to do, they couldn't deprive her of her birthright.

She hoped that her father would soften at the sight of her determination, determination that he must surely recognize was her inheritance from his as much as from her mother. She wanted him to be proud of her, as he was proud of little Elizabeth, but he only nodded curtly at her, without saying another word to her before he turned his attention back to Anne and Elizabeth.

He lifted Elizabeth in his arms once more, kissing her cheeks and swinging her around a couple of times before putting her down, then he approached Anne. He was more formal with her, bowing courteously and kissing her hand, but Mary could tell from the expression on his face that he would have liked to be more demonstrative with her, had he dared.

Once he was gone, without even bidding her 'good day', she couldn't keep her eyes from misting, no matter how much she tried to control herself and not to let them see that she was upset, not wanting to give them the satisfaction. Her eyes were blurred with unshed tears that she determinedly blinked away when Anne approached, but she couldn't clear her vision, not completely, and when she first saw Anne's face, she thought that she saw compassion there.

"Lady Mary?" Anne's voice was quiet, her words meant only for Mary's ears, though Elizabeth was standing by her side, holding one of her hands and watching them curiously. "If you would rather not attend the banquet, I can have one of the other ladies perform your duties." She suggested kindly, wanting to offer Mary a discreet escape from the duties Henry had decreed for her if she wished to take it. The thought that, had things happened differently, Elizabeth might have been in a position where she would have to serve one of Jane Seymour's brats was incentive enough for her to want to spare Mary this ordeal, if she could. "I can speak to the King..."

Henry wouldn't argue with her if she told him that she didn't want Mary to serve Elizabeth. He'd let her have her way in this, and he would command that Mary should not be allowed to attend the banquet, as a servant or otherwise.

Mary was tempted to accept the offer, even if it did come from Anne, but she couldn't believe that her father's wife... his _concubine_... would ever be willing to just help her like that, not unless she stood to benefit as much, or more from doing so. If she was offering to step in for Mary now, she would have her reasons for doing so, reasons why she would not want Mary to be present.

"No, thank you, madam." She responded frostily, meeting Anne's gaze squarely. "I don't need your help."

She waited for Anne to shout at her, to demand that she remember that she was the Queen and should be treated with respect, and to threaten her with punishments for her ingratitude, but Anne didn't say another word. She just looked at Mary for a few moments, a glimmer of pity in her eyes, before sighing softly and returning her attention to little Elizabeth, who looked puzzled by the coldness in Mary's tone when she addressed her mother, unable to understand why her sister should behave so rudely to her mother. Anne led her away, chatting to the toddler about the new jewels she would wear with her new gown. A part of Mary wanted to go back on what she said, to tell Anne that she would rather if she could be freed from the obligation to serve Elizabeth, if Anne was able to persuade her father, and to thank her if she was able to ensure that she would be spared the task, but her tongue wouldn't speak the words.

She couldn't ask Anne for a favour, or accept anything from her.

* * *

**_8th July 1536_ **

The Admiral of France was like a different man to the one who had come to negotiate the match last year.

He greeted Boleyn with every appearance of friendship, expressing his pleasure at the thought of a match that would unite their countries, telling him that the King of France was delighted by the prospect of a union between his youngest son and the daughter of his dear brother, the King of England. He also noted upon his arrival that Boleyn was the one taking the leading role in these negotiations, so he greeted him first before he deigned to notice Brandon, even though, by rights, he should have greeted the duke before the earl.

"Your Grace." The Admiral inclined his head in Brandon's direction by way of greeting but he said no more to him, opting instead to sit down with Boleyn to discuss terms, explaining what the King of France had in mind as far as Elizabeth's income during her marriage and her jointure if she was widowed, along with the estates that any children born of the marriage would inherit were concerned, while Brandon was left to stand behind them, like a groom waiting for one of them to give him his instructions.

The Admiral might not have been told, but he was shrewd enough to sense which man was out of favour and which he should focus his attention on.

"His Majesty wishes to ensure that his beloved daughter, the Princess Royal, is well provided for after her marriage." Boleyn explained, glancing down at the page where Henry's proposals were detailed, even though he knew them by heart, having spent hours studying them in preparation for this visit. The King had also discussed the matter with him, listening to his suggestions for provisions that might be made for the little girl, and following many of his recommendations. Boleyn suspected that he could have advocated that Ireland should be included as part of Elizabeth's dowry, and the King might have considered it, he was so eager to please Anne and to win her affection again. "The Princess Royal will be dowered with one million gold crowns, and she will retain the income from the duchy of York for her lifetime. His Majesty also intends that, when the marriage takes place, the Duke of Angouleme will be vested with the title of Duke of Clarence and suitable estates, and he will be honoured as if he was a son of the King." His tone was bland when he explained this, as though there was nothing extraordinary about the terms.

"The King of England is very generous." The Admiral responded, knowing that this was an understatement. Even for a princess' dowry, the terms King Henry was offering were unusually generous, making the little princess the best dowered bride in Europe. He diplomatically refrained from alluding to the fact that this generosity was likely to be motivated by the King's knowledge that he would need to ensure that his fellow monarch was adequately compensated for accepting Princess Elizabeth as a bride for his son when he knew that her legitimacy was not accepted by some, just as he did not allude to the possibility that the Duke of Angouleme might marry into a more exalted title than that of Duke of Clarence, that he might become King Consort of England.

In the event that no son was born to the King and Queen of England, and the Princess Royal's succession became a much stronger possibility, they would have to reopen negotiations to determine what the young Duke's entitlements would be, but for the moment, this would suffice.

"I trust that the terms will be agreeable to your master?" Boleyn pressed. He did a masterful job of concealing his emotions but he badly wanted this betrothal to be successfully arranged. He wanted his little granddaughter's future to be assured, and for his daughter to be publicly vindicated by the King of France and accepted as England's rightful Queen. Even the prospect of Brandon being penalized for any failure wouldn't make him want to see these negotiations fail.

His daughter was more important.

In any case, Boleyn suspected that, no matter what kind of punishment the King had planned for Brandon if the negotiations failed, the other man would find it preferable to seeing the negotiations succeed. If he sided with the Lady Mary, then the last thing he would want would be for Elizabeth's rights as Princess to be championed by the King of France while Mary was recognized as a bastard.

Brandon might not dare to openly sabotage the negotiations but, if they failed through no fault of his, he was unlikely to be devastated.

"I am certain that they will." The Admiral assured him. "And am I to have the honour of meeting the Princess Royal?" He asked, smiling as though this would give him the greatest pleasure in his life. "And I am looking forward to meeting Queen Anne once more." He added with a wide smile.

Brandon, remembering the coolness of the Admiral's manner towards Anne the last time he visited and the way he had blatantly snubbed the entertainments she had devised for him, opting to stay with him and Catherine at their home as long as he possibly could so that he could postpone his meeting with Anne, barely managed to suppress a snort of derision.

Boleyn frowned in his direction but he forced himself to smile at the Admiral. "Queen Anne has planned a banquet for Your Excellency tomorrow night, so that you may be presented to the Princess Royal." He told him. "She hopes that you will be able to attend." He said politely, as though he did not know that there was no way that the Admiral would decline the invitation, not this time. "And His Majesty hopes so as well, of course."

"Of course." The Admiral inclined his head graciously. "It will be my honour and my pleasure." He assured them before hesitating a moment, feigning reluctance to speak before he continued. "There _is_ one issue that I must bring up, an unpleasant one." He began, trying to broach a difficult issue as tactfully as he could. "The King of France is eager for this betrothal, as I have said," he said, looking to Brandon for the first time since the discussions began. "He would like the King of England's assurance that there will be no impediment to the Princess Royal's succession – in the event that she does not have a brother, of course. Your Grace?" He pressed, when Brandon didn't respond straight away.

"I'm sure that His Grace can assure you that the Princess Royal is legally recognized as the rightful heir to the throne." Boleyn assured him, frowning at Brandon, warning him that he would be wise to agree, if he did not want Boleyn to report his failure to do so to the King. "The English people have come to recognize that the Lady Mary is nothing but a bastard, and the King will never allow her to succeed him. In a short time, even Lady Mary will have to publicly acknowledge the Princess Royal's legitimacy and her right to succeed. Is that not so, Your Grace?"

The Admiral ignored Boleyn's words, keeping his gaze trained on Brandon.

The last time he visited, the other man had acted as his host for several days, and they had discussed the issue of the betrothal, with Brandon and his wife had indicated that, regardless of what assurances the King might make, his elder daughter enjoyed far more support among his people than his younger daughter did, just as the majority of the English people would rather call Katherine of Aragon their Queen than Anne Boleyn. This time, the King of France was determined to commit to the betrothal, knowing that it was essential that he secure an alliance with the King of England, but he would be happier if he could know that his future daughter-in-law's path to the English throne would not be blocked by her half-sister.

With both men watching him expectantly, each of them ready to carry word of what he had said back to his King, there was nothing Brandon could do except nod.

"Lady Mary is a bastard, Your Highness, and she will never be allowed to be Queen." He said tonelessly, wishing that Henry could have chosen some other means of punishing him. He was hard-pressed to keep a smile on his face as the Admiral studied his expression, knowing that the other man, an experienced diplomat, could read his face as well as another man might read a book, and that he would know that, even though Brandon might not consider Mary a bastard, he knew that the young girl would not be permitted to succeed her father ahead of Elizabeth.

When the Admiral magnanimously announced that he could see no impediment to the match, he had to feign enthusiasm, and when Boleyn called a toast, he had to raise a glass to a match he did not want to see succeed, a match that would strengthen a woman he disliked and weaken a young girl on whom he only wanted to see good things befall, beaming as though this was joyous news.

Anything less would cost him the love of his King.

* * *

**_9th July 1536_ **

This was the first time that Elizabeth was allowed to stay up when there was an important visitor coming to court from another country but, even though she wasn't going to be three until September, the visit was happening because of her and that meant that she was allowed to be there when the Admiral of France arrived for the banquet, and she would be allowed to stay up later than Lady Bryan ever allowed her to stay up before so that she could enjoy the celebrations.

She was wearing her new purple gown, and her coronet and a diamond necklace that her Papa had given her just this evening, when she was in her Mama's apartment getting ready.

He came to give them a surprise and showed them two boxes, with two diamond necklaces. Elizabeth's was littler than Mama's, because her neck was smaller and Mama's necklace would be too heavy for her, but she thought that it was just as beautiful and she gave her Papa a big hug and a kiss for it.

Mama didn't kiss Papa when he gave her her necklace.

She was still sad about when she had to go to prison, especially since Papa hadn't said sorry yet.

Elizabeth reached out to squeeze her mother's hand, hoping that she would be able to comfort her and to let her know that everything was going to be alright now. Papa knew that it was naughty for him to send Mama to prison and to want to cut her head off and he wasn't going to do it again – if he tried, Elizabeth would stop him. She wasn't going to let anybody hurt her Mama, not again.

Her Mama smiled down at her. "Are you nervous, sweetheart?" She asked softly, stroking the back of Elizabeth's hand with her thumb. "There's no need; everything's going to be fine."

"I'm not scared." Elizabeth assured her solemnly. "Are you?"

"A little bit." Anne responded wryly. Elizabeth was too young to be aware of the importance of the Admiral's visit, and what the implications would have been if she was rejected as a potential bride yet again, but even though her father had assured Anne that she didn't need to worry, and that King Francis was as eager for the match as she was, she was still afraid that something would go wrong. She doubted that she would feel at ease until the marriage contract was signed and sealed.

"There's nothing to worry about, my love." Henry assured her, overhearing her. He tentatively reached for her free hand, hoping that she would not shake off his grasp. To his relief, Anne allowed him to take her hand in his and stood by his side, holding little Elizabeth by the hand at her other side as the Admiral entered the Hall, heralded by trumpets and escorted by Boleyn, with Brandon following immediately after them.

Boleyn inclined his head when they reached Henry and Anne, making the introductions, which were required by courtesy, even though they had met before. Considering how the last meeting had ended, perhaps it was just as well that they pretend that it had never happened. "Your Majesties and Your Highness, may I present His Excellency Phillipe Chabot de Brionne, the Admiral of France."

The Admiral removed his hat, bowing to Henry with a flourish. "Your Majesty."

"Welcome to my court, Your Excellency." Henry responded, gently drawing Anne forward. "May I present my wife, Queen Anne."

"Your Majesty." Anne did not fail to notice that the Admiral's bow was deeper this time, and that there was more warmth and deference infused in his tone as he greeted her, nor did she miss the fact that he had greeted her as 'Your Majesty', a mode of address reserved exclusively for monarchs and their consorts, rather than the non-committal 'madame' he previously used. "It is my honour, and my great pleasure."

"The pleasure is mine, Your Excellency." Anne responded graciously, allowing him to kiss her hand.

Henry laid his hands on Elizabeth's shoulders next, smiling as his daughter made a shallow, graceful curtsey to their guest, clearly impressed by the splendour of his apparel. "And may I introduce our beloved daughter, Her Highness the Princess Elizabeth, Princess Royal and Duchess of York?" He introduced formally, his smile and tone betraying his pride in his beautiful little girl.

Elizabeth was such a charming little girl that few were proof against her charms and Henry was certain that he saw the Admiral's face crease in a genuine smile rather than the feigned ones he donned for the benefit of the adults, and he even chuckled a little as Elizabeth extended her tiny, chubby hand for a kiss, imitating her mother's gesture perfectly.

"It is my honour to meet such a beautiful princess." The Admiral told Elizabeth solemnly, delighting the little girl by bowing low over her hand and kissing it, as if she was a grown lady. "Prince Charles, the Duke of Angouleme, will be very pleased when I tell him how lovely you are."

"I'm glad." The gravity of Elizabeth's response drew chuckles from those who heard her. She was put out at first, not liking the idea that people might be laughing at her, but she felt better when her Papa bent down to take her arm to lead her to the table, while the Admiral conducted her Mama to the table. Her Mama and her Papa sat next to one another, and the Admiral sat on Mama's other side while Elizabeth sat next to Papa.

Lady Bryan had a seat at the end of the table, and Lady Mary and Lady Alice were standing behind Elizabeth, ready to serve her. Elizabeth smiled up at Lady Mary as she laid a white silk napkin across her lap, ready in case she spilled anything.

Anne watched her daughter for a few moments, smiling at her as Elizabeth settled into her chair with the gravity of a much older person, washing her hands in the proffered finger bowl. Lady Mary was clearly unhappy to have to stand behind the toddler and serve her like a waiting woman but, thankfully, she refrained from making a scene, although Anne could see her casting glances in the Admiral's direction, as though she was willing him to notice her and to comment on the fact that the King of England's daughter, the former Princess of Wales, was serving at table.

If the Admiral was aware of her staring, he did not remark on it.

His behaviour tonight was a complete contrast to the last time.

Last time, he had found fault with virtually every aspect of their hospitality, waving aside the elaborate dishes that had been prepared with such care after scarcely glancing at them, as though they had offered him porridge or dried meat or something fit only for a peasant's supper, but tonight he was all enthusiasm, tasting every dish and complimenting them warmly on the excellence of their table. When he was served wine, he drank it with every appearance of relish.

"A superb vintage, Your Majesty." He said, holding out his goblet so that a servant might refill it. "Is this English wine?"

"It is." Henry answered the question on Anne's behalf. He had not forgotten the way English wine was slighted last time and he was unable to resist the impulse to order that the same vintage should be served this time. It amused him to see the Admiral expressing his admiration for the same wine he had once likened to a gladiator's sweat, and it also indicated that King Francis was indeed taking this betrothal seriously, seriously enough to give his ambassador instructions that he was to make every effort to make himself agreeable to his hosts and, when he had once snubbed Anne, he was now under instructions to behave towards her in a friendly and gracious manner.

Looking down at the tables in front of him, he could see the Duke of Suffolk sitting at the head of one of the lower tables, close enough for Henry to make out the sombre expression on his face as he chewed through his meal and drank his wine in silence. The task laid upon him as punishment for his behaviour towards Anne had certainly not been a pleasant one for him, and Henry hoped that it would have the desired effect. Even when things were at their worst with Anne, he would never have condoned any man treating his wife roughly, something that was an offence against him as well as her, and he would not have a man who called himself his friend behaving with disloyalty and supporting Mary when he knew well that Elizabeth was Henry's chosen heir.

Brandon had to learn his lesson, just as Mary did, and everybody else.

He forced his attention away from Brandon and back to the Admiral, who was speaking to Anne in French. The language did not come to Henry quite as easily as it did to his wife, who had spent much of her girlhood in the French court, but he was still fluent and could follow their conversation without any difficulty. He could hear that they were speaking about mundane subjects, with the Admiral giving Anne news of some of the members of the French court with whom she had been acquainted during her time there, while Anne inquired about friends of hers there.

He hadn't really thought that she would take the opportunity to speak against him to the Admiral, or to appeal to King Francis through him, as she had evidently attempted to appeal to the French ambassador before her arrest, when she could sense that the wolves were gathering, ready to tear her to pieces, but he was still glad to see that she had not.

He wanted to know that, despite everything, she was still loyal to him.

"Your Majesty," the Admiral addressed him, a smile on his face. "As I understand it, there was a plan that Your Majesty and Queen Anne would pay a visit to France earlier this year." At his side, his hostess paled slightly as she recalled the reason why the planned visit had been cancelled but she recovered quickly, covering her discomfort with a practiced smile. "King Francis wished for me to extend a renewed invitation to Your Majesties to be his guests at his court, at your convenience – I am certain that he will wish to celebrate the betrothal, and to present the Duke of Angouleme, your future son-in-law, to you. May I tell him that Your Majesty accepts the invitation?"

Henry's smile was a thin one. Although tonight was going smoothly, without Anne shying away from him or behaving coldly towards him, he wasn't sure if they were ready to take a trip to France together. It might be too soon for her to feel ready to do that, and if she refused to go, he couldn't drag her to the ship, kicking and screaming, any more than he could insult King Francis by going without Anne when the invitation was issued to them both.

The Admiral was waiting for an answer and Henry couldn't read anything from Anne's expression.

"I will discuss it with the Queen." He said at last, looking across at Anne, hoping that she would give him some indication of her preference, some sign that she understood that he would not force her to come to France against her will but that he thought that it was important that they went there, but her expression was guarded and he couldn't tell what she thought or felt about it. He suppressed a sigh, forcing himself to smile at the Admiral and to engage in conversation with him, discussing the details of the betrothal.

He and Anne would talk later.

* * *

"I thought that tonight went very well." Henry said, as cheerily as he could, when he stopped by Anne's apartments to bid her goodnight. She was dressed for bed when he arrived, wrapped in a crimson velvet robe, with several of her ladies in attendance, though they melted away when he arrived, standing at the back of the room and allowing them the illusion of privacy. "The Admiral and I will sign the marriage contract tomorrow, and we'll have it all in writing." He told her reassuringly. "Everybody will see that the King of France knows that our daughter is legitimate."

"I'm glad." Anne said, her pleasure visible. "It's an excellent match." For a fleeting instant, she wondered if things would have been different if King Francis had shown himself willing to accept Elizabeth as a bride for his son when the idea of the match was broached last year, if those who sought to bring her down would still have dared to make a move against her if they had seen that she had the support of the King of France, but she banished the thought from her mind.

It could do her no good to dwell on that now.

All that mattered was that the match was settled on this time.

"Sweetheart..." Henry began tentatively, "you know what the Admiral said, about our paying a visit to France together? We were going to go, before. Don't you think that it would be a good idea for us to go now, especially now that our daughter is to marry Francis' son? It will mean that his Queen will have to acknowledge you too." He added, thinking that this was an added bonus.

After the death of his first wife, Queen Claude, King Francis had remarried, forced into taking the Emperor's sister as his second wife as part of the stringent conditions for peace laid upon him. Eleanor, France's current Queen, was Katherine's niece and the Lady Mary's first cousin and, as such, would be almost as unwilling to acknowledge Anne as Queen of England than the Emperor was. By simply accompanying him to France, and forcing Queen Eleanor to acknowledge her – and given how desperate Francis seemed to be for an alliance, Henry couldn't imagine his fellow monarch allowing his wife to snub the Queen of England, regardless of her personal sentiments – Anne could strengthen her position and Elizabeth's.

She didn't say anything, so he continued his persuasions. "You like France, don't you?" He pressed her. "I thought that it might be nice for us to go there together. It's where you grew up, after all. Don't you think that you'd like to see it again?"

"Yes, but Elizabeth..." She wasn't ready to leave her child behind, she knew that. After everything that had happened, she needed to spend time with Elizabeth as much as Elizabeth needed to know that her mother was close by, and would not be snatched away from her. The proposed trip to France was likely to take a few weeks, at the very least, and although Anne and her daughter were parted for much longer stretches during Elizabeth's infancy, when her child resided at her own establishment in the country and Anne could visit her only infrequently, they weren't ready to be parted yet. It was too soon for them.

"I understand." Henry said gently, reminding himself to be patient, even though part of him was appalled by the idea that a Queen of England would ever contemplate the idea of shirking part of her duties as his consort for the sake of remaining behind with their child. Queens did not play an active role in the upbringing of their children, especially when their children were as young as their daughter was now. Elizabeth would be well cared for in their absence, with a retinue of devoted servants there to tend to her every need, and under ordinary circumstances, she would not even be with them at court now, she would be at Hatfield and wouldn't even need to know that they were leaving the country, but these were not ordinary circumstances and he needed to adapt to them. "If you wish, I am sure that arrangements can be made for Elizabeth to accompany us." He suggested at last.

Bringing a toddler on a state visit was not ideal, by any means, but Lady Bryan and the rest of Elizabeth's household could come with them to care for her, and it would please Anne to have their child with her, so he could do it.

Anne's expression thawed and she gave him a slight smile. "I'd like that."

"Good." Henry said, relieved that she was being relatively agreeable about this.

He did not want to have to return to Admiral and have to decline King Francis' invitation on Anne's behalf, knowing that the other man would be aware that the reason for Anne's refusal was not that she did not wish to visit France and the King of France but that she could not abide the company of the King of England if she could possibly avoid it. He loathed the idea that the Admiral might enjoy his discomfort, or that he might run back to Francis bearing tales about the strife in Henry's marriage, even if things were not going as well between them as he would have liked.

Francis was just the sort of person who would think it humorous that his fellow monarch was barely on speaking terms with his wife, the wife for whom he had once set himself against the might of the Holy Roman Emperor and of the papacy itself, and he and his court were probably already discussing Anne's arrest and near execution, mocking him for having been fooled by his councillors and by a woman he had thought to be a modest, virtuous maiden.

It was probably at least part of the reason why Francis wanted them to visit now. He wanted to have them as guests at his court so that he could observe their interaction for himself, as though they were characters in a play staged for his entertainment, but Henry would not give him a show.

He would appear at the French court with Anne on his arm and Elizabeth by his side, brazening the talk and showing his fellow monarch that the English royal family was whole once more.

"When will we be going?" Anne asked, wanting to know when they could expect to travel. It would take time for her to arrange for suitable attire for herself and for Elizabeth on their journey, and she would need to organize her household as well, and give directions to Lady Bryan. "I think that we should be at court in September, for Elizabeth's birthday." She added.

"We can go whenever it suits you, sweetheart." Henry said, thinking it best to let her take the lead, at least this once, rather than being the one to issue directions, whatever it took to ensure that their trip would be a safe and pleasant one. "You think about it, and let me know, and I'll tell the Admiral, alright?" She nodded. He could hear movement behind him and knew that her ladies were milling about, waiting for him to leave so that they might finish preparing Anne for bed and see their mistress safely settled for the night.

"Alright." Anne smiled at him and allowed him to take her hand to kiss it without flinching away from his grasp. He was trying, at least, and for a man of Henry's temperament, it was not easy to defer to another, even his wife – perhaps especially his wife. She could try too. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight." Henry responded, leaving the room and resolving to tell the Admiral the news in the morning, and letting him know that arrangements would have to be made to receive Elizabeth as well as himself and Anne.

It would be good for him, Anne and Elizabeth to leave the court for a while and travel, as a family.


	15. Chapter 15

**_11th July 1536_ **

Madge Shelton opened the door to her mistress' apartment, her eyes growing wide when she saw who was standing there. She bobbed a hasty curtsey to the unexpected visitor before backing away to allow him to enter the room, announcing his identity to the Queen and to the other ladies. "The Admiral of France is here, Your Majesty." She said solemnly.

"Your Excellency." Anne rose from her chair, holding out her hand for the ambassador to kiss and feeling relieved to see him there. He had sent a message early in the morning, begging to be allowed permission to call on her before he was due to begin his journey back to France and she had granted it but, despite the fact that he had treated her politely and deferentially during his time in England, she could not fully rid herself of the fear that he intended to snub her, at the eleventh hour, deciding to forgo their audience and leaving her waiting for him, when he had no intention of appearing in her apartment.

"Your Majesty." The Admiral of France bowed deeply as soon as he was ushered into Anne's presence chamber, doffing his hat with a flourish and smiling widely at her as he kissed her slender hand, treating her with the same courtesy he had accorded her every time they met since he had arrived in England, behaving gallantly towards a lady he was under orders to acknowledge as Queen and to cultivate the good will of, just as he had once snubbed a lady he was ordered to repudiate. "I am grateful to you for receiving me, madame; I would not have liked to leave England without being given the opportunity to take my leave of so lovely a Queen."

Anne smiled at him, amused by the practiced courtesies, even if she knew them to be politically motivated rather than inspired by genuine liking and respect for herself.

It was a hard lesson to learn but she had learned that it was impossible to place one's trust in a monarch if one wanted their trust to be justified; King Francis had pledged his friendship and support to her before her marriage but withdrawn it when she was in trouble and stood most in need of his backing, and Henry, who had promised that he would love and serve only her, had forsaken her bed in favour of those of his favoured mistresses before their first year of marriage was over. Only a fool would blindly trust the word of a King, and she had outgrown her previous folly.

She would play the political game now, and she would learn to play it well, for her sake and, more importantly, for her child's, but she would never fully trust any man's word again.

To do so was too dangerous.

"It is my pleasure, Your Excellency." She said pleasantly, sitting down and motioning for the Admiral to sit down opposite her. Her ladies were practiced in their duties, so she did not need to give orders that wine should be brought for them before Nan Saville appeared by her side, bearing a small tray with a flagon of wine and two gold goblets set on it. "English wine again, Your Excellency." Anne told him sweetly. "As you enjoyed it so much at the banquets."

"How thoughtful of Your Majesty."

As a practiced ambassador, the Admiral kept a wide smile on his face as he drank his wine, with every indication of enjoyment, privately thinking that he would never acquire a taste for this vintage that the English seemed to be able to drink with relish and feeling thankful that courtesy only required that he should drink _one_ goblet of the stuff. Although he made sure to time his drinking carefully, not wanting to drink so slowly that his hostess might enquire about whether he disliked the wine, or so quickly that there was a risk that he would be offered a refill that courtesy would not allow him to decline, he was amused by Anne's gesture, understanding the meaning of the gentle reproof, and the reminder that, although she understood the reasons for his previous conduct and knew that it had not been personal, she had not forgotten it.

King Francis was also likely to be amused when he heard the story. He was not a man who could easily become angry with a beautiful woman, no matter what she did, and though he would never admit it, the Admiral suspected that, in his heart, his master had a soft spot for Queen Anne, who had grown to womanhood in the French court and who was a living example of the lovely, charming young ladies who lived there.

"Please tell King Francis that I am looking forward to seeing him soon."

"Of course, Your Majesty. His Majesty indicated that you would choose when to visit." He probed, wanting to be able to bring his master a definite date. It would take a great deal of time and effort to make arrangements to receive the English royal family, and it was important that they were given as much advance notice as possible, so that they would be ready when the time came.

"I thought that we would go at the beginning of August, if that is agreeable to your master." Anne responded. "I would prefer that my family should be back in England by September, and my daughter's birthday – King Francis is a father, so I'm sure that he will understand that."

"Of course, Your Majesty." The Admiral said, as though this was the most natural thing in the world, as though a Queen would not normally be expected to leave her child behind, for however long she was required to be away, regardless of the family celebrations that took place in her absence. If it was Queen Anne's wish to bring Princess Elizabeth to France with her and the King, then King Francis was unlikely to object. He would be too pleased at the prospect of their two countries allying against the Emperor to have any problems with whatever Queen Anne wanted in order to make the visit. "I am sure that my King will be delighted and honoured to have the opportunity to meet the beautiful Princess Royal," he added, "and the Duke of Angouleme as well. Her Highness is a credit to you, and to the King."

"Thank you, Your Excellency." Anne said, softening at the compliment to her adored child.

"I am sure that the Princess will be all that King Francis could wish for in a daughter, and all that the Duke of Angouleme could wish for in a bride." The Admiral continued, sensing that the compliments about little Elizabeth were having more of an impact on Anne than those directed at herself. "And it will, of course, be my master's wish and pleasure to ensure that the Princess Royal's inheritance will not be threatened by those who would usurp her rights. He will defend her by any means necessary." He added, thinking of the King's elder daughter.

Per his master's instructions, he had not asked after the Lady Mary, making no attempt to see her and, even when he suspected that she was among the group of young girls who attended Princess Elizabeth at the banquet, he did not mention her or draw any attention to her. The last thing that King Francis wanted was for the cousin of the Emperor to be restored as her father's heir, knowing that if Mary succeeded her father, England and Spain would be allied against France, leaving them vulnerable to both powers. It was far better for France that Elizabeth should succeed her father, especially if she was married to the Duke of Angouleme, who would rule by his wife's side and raise their sons to be loyal to their French cousins.

"I hope that this will not be necessary," Anne said, feeling chills run down her spine at the thought of war being waged over the succession to the throne, with France backing Elizabeth and Spain backing Mary. Regardless of which side won, England would be devastated by the conflict. "It is the King's hope, and mine, that the Lady Mary will learn to accept the truth about her mother's union with the King, and that she will understand that, as painful as it is for her, she is illegitimate and unfit to inherit the throne." She spoke steadily, knowing that, for Elizabeth's sake, she could not allow there to be any question or doubt over her right to be Henry's heir, but she felt a pang of regret when she thought of Mary, who would soon be faced with a painful ultimatum, and threatened if she refused to comply.

She had narrowly escaped execution, so how could she stand by and allow Mary to be led to the scaffold if she refused to take the Oath, even for Elizabeth's sake? She prayed that she would not be put in a position where she would be forced to choose between the welfare and security of her beloved daughter and the life of her stepdaughter.

"I hope that this will be so, Your Majesty." The Admiral said, though his tone was unconvincing. Sensing that Anne did not want their audience to continue, and knowing that his time was pressing, he gave her an apologetic smile. "I hope that Your Majesty will forgive me, but I am afraid that I do not have much time. I must catch the next tide, and before that, I must take my leave of His Majesty."

"Of course, Your Excellency." Anne gave him a grateful smile, thankful that he had been the one to terminate their interview, sparing her the discomfort of having to dismiss him. "I hope that you have enjoyed your visit to our court?"

"Immensely, Your Majesty." He assured her, sweeping a deep bow and kissing her hand once more before he began to back out of her presence. "And I look forward to seeing you soon, in France."

Anne kept her smile frozen on her face until the door was shut behind the Admiral then she allowed it to fall, her brow creasing with worry as she thought of Mary, and of the Oath. She didn't notice her sister's approach, and jumped when Mary laid a hand on her shoulder.

"I'm sorry, sister, I didn't mean to startle you." Mary apologized, feeling concerned about the worried expression on Anne's face. Anne's ladies could sense that the two sisters needed to speak alone, so they found tasks with which to busy themselves, keeping a distance from them to allow them some privacy, if they spoke in low voices. "Is something wrong?"

"I was thinking about the Lady Mary." Anne responded, feeling glad that her sister was here to speak to her about the matter.

Before, she would have spoken to George but, although her brother usually lent a sympathetic ear when she spoke to him about her woes, he rarely had any constructive advice to offer her. He advocated that Mary should be dealt with by the use of poison, administered by the hand of somebody who could be trusted to administer small amounts, so that Mary's death would appear to be the result of illness rather than foul play, and keep his mouth shut afterwards. As ashamed as she was to think of it now, there were a few times when Anne was tempted to tell him to arrange it, when she was so afraid of the threat Mary represented to Elizabeth that she felt as though she would be prepared to resort to murder, but even then she had known that it would cause her more problems than it would solve.

Henry would never have forgiven her if he suspected her of involvement in his child's death, and he shouldn't have.

"What about her? Is she causing trouble in the nursery?" Mary asked, even though she knew that this could not be the answer. If the Lady Mary was causing trouble in the nursery, they would have heard about it from Lady Bryan by now. The governess was not somebody who would be slow to report any acts of defiance on Mary's part, not when she was their own kinswoman. Like all of their family, close and extended, Lady Bryan knew where her interest lay and she would not allow little Elizabeth to be threatened by her half-sister.

"Not that I know of – so far, she's behaved very well there, as well as could be expected under the circumstances." Anne said fairly. "Henry has decided that she's to take the Oath."

"That's not news, Anne." Mary pointed out. "The King has been sending people to order the Lady Mary to take the Oath for years now."

"Yes, but now he's determined that she will give in or pay the price for it. He's set a date. She has to take the Oath by September and Elizabeth's birthday – Henry told me that he doesn't want the celebrations in honour of Elizabeth turning three to be marred by Mary being around, claiming our daughter's title." Anne added. Henry was smiling when he told her that, as though this was a great gift and, in a sense, it was. She was glad to know that he meant what he said about defending Elizabeth's position but his readiness to prosecute his other daughter, even as he lavished affection on their child, chilled her. "If she doesn't take the Oath, if she doesn't accept me as Queen and Elizabeth as heir, he's going to prosecute her for treason."

"My God!" Three months ago, Mary wouldn't have believed that it was possible. She would have been certain that Anne was hysterical, that she was overreacting to something the King had said, or that she had taken his blustering out of context and mistaken a bluff for a true threat but now, she recognized the seriousness of the threat. The King was willing to send his wife to the scaffold, so he could send his daughter there too, all too easily. "Does the Lady Mary know about this?" She asked, hoping that, when the girl learned how serious this was, she would give in, however painful it might be for her to do so, rather than risking her life by continuing to defy the King.

"Brandon is to speak to her about it. It is to be his job to get her to take the Oath."

"Because of what happened in the gardens?" Mary was appalled and furious to think that Brandon had dared to lay an aggressive hand on her sister but she had to admit that, if this was the King's punishment, it was well-chosen. Brandon was certain to find it galling to have to go to Mary to urge her to take the Oath and to accept Anne as Queen, when he would have liked nothing more than to see Anne fall from grace, even if that meant watching an innocent woman led to the scaffold for crimes she had not committed. He had abandoned the Boleyn cause and transferred his allegiance to Katherine – albeit quietly, for fear of the King's anger if he learned of his true feelings on the matter – and he would hate to have to go to Katherine's daughter to urge her to submit.

"Yes." Anne answered. "As if having to work with Papa wasn't already bad enough!" She quipped, giggling at the thought of how much it would have galled Brandon to have to follow their father's directions while they worked together to entertain the Admiral. She sobered quickly, unable to forget the question of Mary. "He's going to have to speak to her about the matter, and to convince her and I think that he's really going to try but the Lady Mary is a stubborn girl, she's so stubborn." She lamented. "I spoke to her before, just after Henry ordered her to Hatfield to wait on Elizabeth. I offered to bring her to court and to reconcile her with Henry if she would acknowledge me as Queen but she didn't even hesitate before she refused – she called me the King's mistress!" She added indignantly.

"That was when her mother was alive, remember." Mary said soothingly, reaching out to stroke her sister's hair, hoping to calm her. Anne was easily upset these days, and that couldn't be good for her. "It's natural that she wouldn't have wanted to accept your offer back then, not as long as Katherine was around, and claiming to be Queen. The Lady Mary was young, and she loved her mother very much. You couldn't expect her to call Katherine a liar by acknowledging you as Queen, not even if it meant that she would be allowed to come back to court if she did. There was nothing that you could have offered her that would have persuaded her, not then. Maybe it will be different now. She must be lonely, so if she thought that you would be kind to her if she gave in, she might do it." She suggested encouragingly.

Even as Anne's sister, Mary did not have the freedom to speak her mind, especially where matters like the Lady Mary were concerned, matters that were affairs of state as much as family issues, so even though she had not approved of the way the young girl was treated in the aftermath of Elizabeth's birth and afterwards, she was not at liberty to voice her opinion, even when she was alone with her sister. Now, however, she hoped that she would be able to persuade Anne to treat Mary kindly, even if her kindness was rebuffed at first.

If nothing else, Anne's conscience was likely to be quieter if she was kind to Mary.

"I want to be kind to her, Mary." Anne insisted earnestly, meaning every word she was saying. "When I look at her now, so miserable and so alone... I keep thinking that it might have been Elizabeth, very easily. If I had died, and Henry had married that worthless Seymour slut, then she would have been eager to get him to welcome _Mary_ back into his life, the Seymours wanted to see her restored to favour, but who would have been there to say a word for Elizabeth? Nobody." She answered her own question. "Nobody in our family would have had the King's ear, not if I died as a traitor, and nobody outside the family would have cared enough about Elizabeth to try to get Henry to be kind to her – unless Cranmer found some courage." She amended, thinking of her chaplain who, though kind, was far from brave. "How can I do less for Mary now than I would have wanted others to do for Elizabeth, if I wasn't there to protect her?"

Mary nodded and, although she did not say anything, she felt proud of her younger sister. Anne's dearest friend could not deny that she had faults, and among them was a tendency to be selfish and self-centred at times. As painful as her time in the Tower must have been, as much as it must have pained her to know that the King was willing to discard her, even to kill her if that meant that he could move on with Mistress Seymour, she had learned something from that frightening time, had learned enough generosity to be concerned for her stepdaughter and to want to help her.

At least some good had come of it.

"If Mary takes the Oath, I'm going to tell Henry that I want him to tell her that she doesn't have to serve Elizabeth any more." Anne continued, full of good resolutions. "I'll tell him that the Lady Mary should have her own apartment, and servants, and that she should be the first lady at court after me and Elizabeth. He'll agree to that." She said confidently, knowing that Henry was unlikely to refuse her request once she made her wishes for Mary's future status at court known.

"That's very nice of you, Anne." Mary praised her. "But what if Mary doesn't take the Oath? What if she refuses to take it, no matter what Brandon says to her?"

Anne's face turned pale and she swallowed audibly. "She has to take the Oath." She said simply. "Because if she doesn't, I think that Henry will be prepared to kill her for refusing and he won't listen to anybody who tries to talk him out of it, not even me."

* * *

**_12th July 1536_ **

While the Admiral was in England, and Brandon was required to shoulder a great deal of the burden of entertaining the man, he was spared the necessity of carrying out the second task that Henry laid upon him. However, as soon as the leave-taking ceremonies were over and the Admiral was on his way back to his home country, Brandon had no excuse for delaying any longer before he sought permission from Henry to visit Mary, permission that was immediately granted, as Henry knew well what the purpose of that visit was.

Like all visitors to the royal nursery, regardless of which of Elizabeth's attendants they wished to see, it was necessary for Brandon to pay his respects to Elizabeth, as Princess Royal, before he could be allowed to speak to Mary. He was certainly not in a position where he could get away with denying Elizabeth any of the honours of a princess. Catherine had offered to accompany him and, although he declined her offer, he agreed with her suggestion that he should bring Edward with him to play with his young cousin so his son hurried alongside him as they made their way to the beautifully appointed suite of rooms set apart for Elizabeth, the nursery where she had lived for longer than her father had intended since they were first given over to her use.

Anne was refusing to part with her child and Henry was giving her her way in this matter, as in so many others, so the child had not been sent back to Hatfield and it did not look as though she would be at any time in the near future. As long as Anne wanted to have Elizabeth with her, Henry was not going to take the step of ordering that they should be separated and made to reside under different roofs, as they had until now.

Although Brandon knew that Anne was more than capable of being manipulative and of constantly scheming for her child's advancement whenever she saw the need or the opportunity to do so, he did not think that she only wanted to have Elizabeth at court so that the little girl would be on hand, ready to be lavished with favour and showered with honours by a father who was determined to win his way back into the good graces of her mother. The long hours she spent playing in the nursery with Elizabeth when she was awake and choosing clothes and toys for her when she was sleeping, and the care and attention that she lavished on the child were proof of her genuine love for her daughter. She would have wanted her child with her, even if Henry was not showing himself to be so generous to Elizabeth.

Given that they were almost parted permanently, he could not blame her for that.

"Why are you going to visit the Lady Mary, Father?" Edward asked, running to keep up with his father's long-legged stride. He was pleased that he was to be allowed to go to play with Princess Elizabeth today, something he had asked his parents to allow before but that they had always come up with some excuse or another why he might not go to see her. Even though she was much younger than he was, there weren't many children at court and it was lonely for him there, so lonely that even a little girl not yet three seemed like a good potential playmate. In any case, he had not had a chance to speak to his cousin since that day in the gardens when his father shouted at Queen Anne, and he wanted to explain to her that, no matter what his father did, he still respected the Queen as a good, loyal subject ought to.

He didn't want Elizabeth to think that he would be rude to her mother.

"I must speak to Lady Mary about the Oath." Brandon explained, slowing a little so that the boy could keep up with him, "The King has commanded that she is to take it, very soon."

"Oh." Everybody was supposed to take the Oath, at least every grown-up, but Lady Mary wouldn't, even though it was against the law to refuse. "I'm glad."

"Glad?" Brandon gave his son a quizzical look, surprised that the boy could see a positive side to this affair, when he wanted nothing more than to find a way to escape the task.

"Yes, Father." Edward nodded solemnly. "Once the Lady Mary takes the Oath, the King will know that she is a loyal subject and she won't have to get in trouble any more. It's naughty to disobey the King, especially when he's Lady Mary's father as well, but His Majesty won't have to be cross with her if she takes it, and that will make him happy, won't it, Father? And the Queen?"

"I imagine so." Brandon responded, frowning at the thought of how pleased Anne was likely to be if she heard that he managed to convince Mary to take the Oath, admitting that she was illegitimate and that Elizabeth was the legitimate heiress to the throne, while Anne was the rightful Queen and Henry's true wife. Anne had tried to persuade Mary to take the Oath and to acknowledge her as Queen, reportedly offering to welcome her back to court and treat her with honour if she would comply, so she was certain to be delighted once she learned that she was to get what she wanted, especially since she would not have to reward Mary for her submission, since it would come at Brandon's urging rather than as Mary's part of a bargain with Anne.

Anne had a lot to be pleased about these days.

Elizabeth was safely betrothed to the Duke of Angouleme, and becoming more widely accepted as the heir to the throne by the day. The people were coming to love Anne and to respect her as their Queen instead of persistently denying her that title. The King of France had formally invited the royal family to visit his court, which would oblige him and his wife, the Emperor's sister, to acknowledge Anne as Queen of England. Henry was so determined to win her over that he would give her whatever she wanted, for the asking. Those who had tried to bring her down had been utterly defeated and punished for daring to make a move against her. Cromwell was dead, and none of the Seymours dared to show their faces at court. Their family had been disgraced and ruined while the Boleyns were, once more, honoured and favoured above the other courtiers.

She was better off now than she was before her arrest; if she had not been arrested and charged with adultery, if she had not been in danger of losing her head, securing her the sympathy and support of the people, then it was almost guaranteed that she would have been set aside, with nobody willing to breathe a word in her defence when Henry announced his intention to get rid of her. The people were likely to think that it was nothing more than she deserved. Elizabeth would have been named a bastard while Mary was legitimised and restored to her father's favour, secure in the knowledge that Jane would be a kind, loving stepmother to her.

He truly regretted that he had ever mentioned the rumours about Anne's conduct to Henry.

If he hadn't, Anne would have been set aside by now.

Although it was the last thing that he had intended or wanted to do, he was the one who had helped to secure her position as Queen and the idea was a galling one.

A groom dressed in Elizabeth's new green and white livery bowed low to them as he admitted them to the nursery, announcing their identities to those within. "His Grace the Duke of Suffolk and Lord Edward Brandon, Your Majesty, Your Highness." He announced, bowing in Anne and Elizabeth's direction as Brandon and Edward passed him by to enter the room.

Brandon felt his brow furrow in a frown when he saw that Anne was there, playing with her daughter, sister, niece and dog, but he quickly covered it with a polite smile, bowing low to her. "Your Majesty." He greeted her, before turning to bow to little Elizabeth. "And Princess Elizabeth."

"Your Grace." Anne rose, looking utterly dignified and regal, despite the fact that she had been playing on the floor a moment ago, and extended her hand to him so that he might kiss it. Her voice was cool as she greeted him but her expression and her tone became considerably warmer when she turned her attention to young Edward, who was looking up at her with an awed expression on his face. "Hello, Lord Edward." She greeted him kindly, smiling to reassure him that he was welcome in the nursery. Whatever her quarrel with Brandon and his wife, whatever their quarrel with her, the children should not be involved in the unpleasantness. "How are you?"

"I am very well, Your Majesty." Edward assured her, bowing again.

Elizabeth moved to stand next to her mother, giving Brandon a scowl before turning to her cousin, the scowl melting into a smile of welcome. "Have you come to play with me and Annie?" She asked eagerly, pleased by the prospect of a new playmate. "We're playing with Purkoy – he's Mama's dog." She explained, pointing to the little white bundle of fur that Annie was cuddling.

Edward nodded, allowing his cousin to tow him over to Annie and Purkoy and leaving his father and the Queen alone to talk.

"Is there something I can do for you, Your Grace?" Anne asked politely. There was no point in alluding to their previous confrontation; she doubted that Brandon truly regretted his conduct towards her, only the fact that Henry was angry with him over it, and she had no desire to hear an empty apology. If he didn't mean it, she didn't want to hear it.

"Good morning, Your Majesty." Brandon tried to sound pleasant, to cover his dislike of her with a practiced smile but all he could manage was a grimace. "I have come to speak to the Lady Mary, with your permission – His Majesty has commanded it." He added unwillingly, not wanting to take the risk that Anne might opt to withhold permission until he spelled out the reasons for the visit. He could already see that some of Elizabeth's attendants were watching their exchange curiously, wondering why he would be here and what he would want with Mary.

He didn't want to give any of the girls material to use against Mary, to gloat even more over her fall from grace and the fact that she was being treated as though her status was lower than theirs.

"Of course." Anne inclined her head slightly, turning to look at Mary and smiling encouragingly at her stepdaughter as the girl rose to approach them. "Lady Mary, the Duke of Suffolk is here to see you." She told Mary, trying to sound friendly. She knew what Brandon was here for, just as she knew that it would not be easy for Mary to hear a man that she was likely to count as her friend and supporter advocating her submission to Henry's will, not when she would have preferred to hear him counsel her to fight without making matters more difficult.

Anne wished that Mary could understand that they did not have to be enemies, not now.

Once Mary took the Oath, once Elizabeth's place was safe, then Anne had every intention of speaking to Henry on his daughter's behalf, encouraging him to release Mary from her service in Elizabeth's household and advocating that she should be treated with honour and kindness, as a King's daughter ought to be, provided with everything she would need to live in an honourable state at court. Under other circumstances, she would have wanted to know that somebody would see to it that Elizabeth was well-treated, so how could she do less for Mary?

Mary's expression was sullen and unhappy as she approached, well able to guess what Brandon was here for and steeling herself for an argument. No matter how many people her father sent to coax or badger her, no matter who he charged with the task of convincing her to take the Oath, whether they were Mary's dear friends or her bitter foes, she would never be willing to give in. Her father was wasting his time and the time of his servants by trying to get her to give in, and the sooner he realized that, the better.

"Your Grace." Mary curtsied to Brandon before inclining her head in Anne's direction, pointedly honouring the Duke of Suffolk before she acknowledged the Marquess of Pembroke. "Madam."

Anne stiffened almost imperceptibly, understanding exactly why Mary would choose to behave like that but knowing that there was no point in confronting her about it now, much less appealing to Henry to sort out the issue. Henry would be only too prepared to show her that he was ready to protect her position by berating his daughter for her disrespect but that wouldn't do anything to help the situation in the long term. She wanted Mary to treat her with respect because she respected her, not because she was afraid of the consequences for refusing to do so.

"Would you like to speak privately?" She asked instead, keeping her tone even. Brandon nodded by way of response, his gaze fixed on Mary, as though he was willing her to understand that he did not want to do this and wouldn't do it if not for the fact that Henry had commanded it. "You may use the Privy closet." She suggested, gesturing towards Elizabeth's bedchamber, which led into a small Privy closet, presently used as a private sitting room. There was only one door leading into the room, and no grille that could be used for anybody to look in on them.

"Thank you, Your Majesty." Brandon bowed to Anne again before offering his arm to Mary. "My lady?" He conducted her through Elizabeth's bedchamber into the Privy closet, shutting the door behind them and seating Mary on one of the low chairs, upholstered in green silk. He did not join her immediately, opting instead to listen at the door, so that he could hear if somebody had slipped into the bedchamber behind them, so that they might listen to what was being said. Once he was satisfied that they would be allowed as much privacy as they were likely to get, he sat down, balling his fists awkwardly. "My lady..." He trailed off, not knowing what to say to her.

"I know why you are here, Your Grace." Mary told him bluntly. "The King wishes for you to speak to me about taking the Oath."

"Yes, my lady." Brandon admitted.

"There's no point." Mary told him, setting her jaw and clutching at the green folds of her gown, to steady herself. She knew that if her father had sent a man who would rail at her and threaten her if she refused to take the Oath, she would be able to stand firm against the shouting and the threats but if Brandon intended to speak to her kindly, and to persuade her to take the Oath, then it would be much more difficult for her to defend herself against kindness.

She had so little experience of kindness these days that she was afraid that she might do anything Brandon asked, as long as he asked with a smile and a soft voice.

"Lady Mary, His Majesty the King is determined to see you take the Oath." Brandon told her sombrely, wishing that he could be delivering a kinder message and wondering whether that happy duty might have been his, if he had not spoken to Henry about the rumours regarding Anne's conduct. If he hadn't, if Anne was to be set aside instead of executed, knowing that nobody would breathe a word in her defence, might he have had the happy duty of going to Mary to tell her that, on the orders of her father, little Elizabeth was to be declared a bastard while Mary was to return to court immediately, where her father and her new, loving stepmother would welcome her as Princess Mary, restored to her former position and welcomed into her father's heart once more?

"I know." Mary stated flatly. "This is not a new question to me, Your Grace. Other men have asked this of me, and my answer has always been the same."

"My lady, you know that every English subject is required to take the Oath." Brandon reminded her unnecessarily. "And the penalty that has been exacted against those who refuse. I beg of you, take the Oath." He appealed to her, praying that she would yield before Henry's anger towards her could grow, before her refusal made him contemplate the awful idea of signing his own child's death warrant. Henry would sign, Brandon knew that, although he hated to admit it. He had threatened before, and Brandon had hoped that those threats were empty ones, but these days, he was capable of calling for the death of any man or woman who opposed him and his desires, even his own child. If Mary pushed him, Henry could be prepared to act and, while he might come to regret his decision in time, it would be too late to save Mary by then.

"You know that I can't do that, Your Grace... Uncle." Mary amended, smiling wistfully at Brandon and wondering if he could remember the time when he and her Aunt Margaret had braved her father's anger, marrying without his permission, a treasonous act and one that could have led to their executions if the King willed it. Her father was furious at first, even as a little girl Mary had heard the rumours of her father's anger towards his sister and his friend for their defiance, but he had not signed their death warrants and, in time, they were both welcomed back to court.

His love for his sister and his friend had proved to be strong enough so that he could not call for their deaths, even when they defied him and, by their marriage, robbed him of the marital alliance he might have used Margaret for if she had remained free after her widowhood.

Why should his love for his child be any less strong or deep?

Her father wouldn't kill her.

She couldn't believe that he would be willing to do that, no matter what Anne said or did to him.

"Margaret and I were very lucky, my lady." Brandon told her quietly, guessing what she was thinking of. "Lucky that we married nine years ago and not now." He elaborated, looking her directly in the eye, so that she could not mistake his meaning or the sincerity of his words. "It was different in those days; I was your father's friend, and he loved Margaret very much, she was the only sibling he had left. We knew that we were taking a risk when we got married without his permission but, if we had asked for his permission, it wouldn't have been granted – we thought that it would be easier to get forgiveness than permission." He added ruefully.

"And you did." Mary pointed out. "My father forgave you, and you were allowed to return to court."

"Not for a long time, and it was different back then. The King was different." Brandon said, trying to frame his thoughts in a way that would reach her. "Back then, he was angry, so angry that he was ready to order me to the scaffold, but he stopped himself. He couldn't forget our friendship and, because of that, he didn't order my death, even though he was angry with me." He was silent for a moment, thinking of Thomas More, whose long years of friendship with Henry couldn't save him when he wouldn't obey. "If we'd done it now, it'd be different."

"You think that Father would have executed you for it?" Mary swallowed, not wanting to believe that her father would be capable of that.

"I'm sure that he would have, my lady." Brandon told her flatly, shuddering inwardly at the thought of how easily he might have found himself marched to the Tower and to the scaffold, on the orders of a man who was his friend for so many years, for the crime of marrying a woman he loved, just because that woman was the King's sister. "And I truly believe that he will be prepared to order your execution if you don't take the Oath, as he has commanded. I wouldn't be here if I did not, Lady Mary, I hope that you can believe that this is true."

If he thought that there was a chance that Henry would be the one to give in, that if he was given time, he would forgive Mary's defiance, perhaps even respect her for it, and welcome her back into his life without her taking the Oath, he would not ask her to renounce her birthright, regardless of the cost to himself. He would take his chances with Henry's anger and hope that Mary could be spared the pain that surrendering would cause her.

Tears pricked at the back of Mary's eyelids and slowly crept down her pale cheeks, leaving damp tracks behind as she listened to Brandon's words. He was a good man, she knew that. He might have once made the mistake of allying himself with the Boleyns, years ago, but it was known that he was now their enemy, and that he had sympathized with her mother, even though he was often called upon to bring her painful orders in the King's name. He might have obeyed the King, as a good subject was bound to, but in his heart, he did not believe that his actions were right or just, and he did what he could to temper them.

His wife, Catherine, named for Mary's mother and the daughter of one of the loyal ladies in waiting who had accompanied the then-Infanta of Spain to England when she came to be married to the Prince of Wales all those years ago, was one of the first courtiers to write to Mary when Anne was arrested. The letter was kind and respectfully phrased, even though the title of Princess had to be omitted until the King declared that it was Mary's right once more, and the Duchess of Suffolk had expressed her hope and that of her husband that Mary's fortunes would soon change for the better, now that Anne had fallen and was no longer in a position to do her harm.

Mary had received more than a few letters in those days, and although she doubted the sincerity of some of them, knowing that their authors would only stand her friends as long as she enjoyed her father's favour and might be able to assist them in their advancement at court, she believed in her heart that the Brandons were sincere in their desire to see her restored to favour once more.

Brandon wished her well.

He wanted to see her restored to her father's good graces and to her former, rightful position and he would certainly rather look to her as the next Queen of England than to little Elizabeth who, as Anne's child, was unlikely to treat a family who did not like or respect her mother and who made no pretence of doing so with favour. If Elizabeth became Queen, especially during her minority, it would not bode well for the Brandons. The Boleyns and the Howards would benefit from the ascension of their kinswoman, and the Regency of her mother, but other courtiers would not.

Brandon would not be standing before her now, asking her to take the Oath if he did not think that taking the Oath, as her father had commanded of her, declaring herself a bastard and pretending that her father was the Supreme Head of the English Church, denying papal authority, represented her only hope of restoration.

"I am certain that if you take the Oath, the King will see to it that you are well-treated, my lady, and he will love you and care for you as before." Brandon pointed out gently. "What he wants from you is obedience to his will, and once you give him that, he is certain to reward you for it – amply." Even if nothing else happened for Mary because of her submission, Brandon felt that it would be a great relief to him, and to many other courtiers, to know that the young girl would no longer be required to act as a servant to her sister.

Regardless of the circumstances, regardless of the titles he chose to apply to his daughters, it was wrong for Henry to ever have commanded that Mary should have to serve her baby sister. No girl who had been brought up with the honours and privileges of a princess should ever have been humiliated by being forced to act as a maidservant.

The prospect of being loved by her father once more was a tempting one.

With her mother dead, her father was the only family she had left, with the exception of little Elizabeth, and it was painful for Mary to be excluded from his heart. Every time she saw her father these days, he ignored her almost entirely, refusing to even glance at her while he lavished his affections on Elizabeth, swinging the child in his arms and showing her off, as he once showed Mary off, back in the days when he cherished her as the pearl of his world. Elizabeth was now his perfect little princess, his jewel of all England, the daughter he adored and cherished and he was determined that she would be regarded as the Princess of England and, in the absence of a son from Anne, as the heir to the throne.

He viewed Mary as a threat to Elizabeth.

As long as Mary lived, she would be an alternative heir to little Elizabeth, a trueborn princess whose rights the people were certain to accept ahead of those of his illegitimate daughter by Anne. In time, he and Anne would win more and more support for Elizabeth, in England and abroad, securing her position as the next heir to the throne, but they would never win every man, woman and child in England to their side, they would never be able to be entirely certain that, when the King died, Elizabeth's ascension would be a smooth one. They would always have to worry about whether there would be a rebellion in Mary's name as soon as her father died, with the people cleaving to the rightful heir, as though they had never sworn to uphold Elizabeth's claim... unless Mary was willing to take the Oath.

If she took the Oath, she would no longer be a threat to Elizabeth, as the people would be pleased to have peace and a secure succession, and would not want to upset the applecart by acknowledging the existence of somebody with more of a right to the throne than Elizabeth had. Her father would be so pleased with her for submitting to his will that he was certain to reward her very generously for her compliance, as Brandon predicted would be the case. The idea of enjoying a position of honour at court once more, of presiding over her own household of servants, even a small one, instead of being a maid-in-waiting forced to obey the commands of Elizabeth's governess, was so appealing that she almost said "Yes", then and there.

One little word from her, one signature on a document, and she would no longer be an outcast, and she would no longer be alone. She would not be Princess Mary once more, but the Lady Mary would be well-treated by the King, and even by the so-called Queen, who was certain to be delighted to know that the threat to her own child's position was gone. For the sake of appearances, if nothing else, they would make sure that Mary was treated with kindness and respect once she submitted and declared that she was illegitimate. They would treat her as a royal bastard rather than as a princess but she would still be seen to be recognized as part of the royal family.

She wanted that.

She wanted to be able to dine at the royal table on a dais looking out over the court, instead of at the ordinary tables in the Great Hall, sitting next to lower-ranking courtiers and her fellow attendants or else standing behind Elizabeth, ready to serve the toddler, whatever she might command. She wanted to wear fine gowns of her own choosing, to know that she had a generous allowance for her needs and that she would never need to wear a patched gown or kirtle or a darned stocking because she had no money to replace her garments when they became old and worn. She wanted to play with Elizabeth as her sister instead of having to wait on her as a princess. She wanted her father to treat her kindly and lovingly again, as he used to before everything went wrong.

She wanted to be her father's beloved daughter, but not at this price.

"However much I love my father, Your Grace, and would do anything to please and satisfy him, I still cannot risk my immortal soul for the favour of an earthly King." She said steadily, holding her head high and meeting Brandon's gaze directly. It was important that he understood that she had made her choice and that she understood the consequences of it. Even if she could reconcile herself to the idea of pretending that she was a bastard and repudiating her rights as a princess for the sake of peace for the people of England and to win her way back into her father's good graces, she couldn't pretend that her mother was a liar and she couldn't call her father the Supreme Head and deny the pope's God-given authority.

"My lady, I beg you to reconsider, for your own sake." Brandon pleaded with her, more worried about what would happen to Mary if, come September, he was forced to go to Henry and to admit that he had failed to convince her to take the Oath than he was for himself. Whatever penalty Henry chose to exact against him for his failure, it would not be execution, he could be sure of that much, but Mary might well be forced to pay that awful price. "Is there somebody you would like to talk to about this, Mary?" He asked gently, hoping that she would name somebody, somebody she could trust and who would help her see that, as brave as it was for her to be so determined to defend her position, she was putting her life in danger with her defiance.

"I am not permitted to receive visitors without permission, and without supervision." Mary pointed out, feeling resentful of the fact that, while the other girls who waited on Elizabeth were free to mingle with the court and to receive visitors whenever they were not occupied with tending to their small charge, she was treated as a prisoner, kept confined to quarters and forbidden to stir from the nursery or to speak to anybody unless she was given leave. Not even her cousin's ambassador would be permitted to speak to her without permission, and even then she doubted that she would be given permission to see him without Lady Bryan being present to make sure that nothing they said could be in any way harmful to Elizabeth's interests, or Anne's.

"I am sure that, if I speak to His Majesty, arrangements could be made." Brandon suggested, thinking that Henry was likely to approve any visitor who seemed likely to be able to persuade Mary to give in, even if his preference was to keep her as isolated as possible, in order to ensure that she could not have any contact with people who might bolster her resistance.

"Ambassador Chapuys." Mary said immediately. Of all the people at court, he was the one least likely to be given permission to see her but she thought that it couldn't hurt for her to ask, even if there was only a slim chance that Chapuys would be allowed to come to see her. If there was a chance that she might be allowed to see him, she had to take it. If she could speak to him, even if she was only able to do so with Lady Bryan as a witness, then she would be able to beseech him to appeal to her cousin on her behalf. Surely, no matter how angry her father might be with her for refusing to give in, no matter how much he wanted to please Anne by defending Elizabeth's place as his heir, he would not dare to deliberately set himself against the Holy Roman Emperor by insisting that Mary should take the Oath, or pay for refusing with her life.

"I will see what I can do, my lady." Brandon promised, rising and bowing to the young girl, hoping that Henry would grant permission for Mary to speak to the ambassador, whose master might be the only man in Christendom who had the power to help her... if he was inclined to help her. He left Mary alone in the Privy closet, so that she could gather her thoughts in private before she resumed her duties in Elizabeth's household, and he returned to the day nursery, where his son was playing with Elizabeth and little Annie Stafford.

Anne was playing with the children but she rose when Brandon exited the room.

If he didn't know better, he would have sworn that there was genuine concern in her expression.

"Is everything alright, Your Grace?" She asked quietly, keeping her voice low in the hopes that the children's attention would not be distracted from their game. "Is there something that the Lady Mary needs?"

Brandon almost snapped at her that what Mary needed, Anne was plainly unwilling to allow her to have; her rightful place at court and her father's love. Another altercation with Anne wouldn't help Mary but it would mean that he would not be in a position where he could do anything to help her. Instead, he concentrated on something small, something that he might be able to achieve. "I think that the Lady Mary would like to be able to speak to the Imperial ambassador." He told her.

"I see." Anne nodded comprehension. "I'm sure that that can be arranged, Your Grace. I will send a note to the King, to let him know that I wish for the visit to be allowed."

Brandon frowned at the thought that Anne, with no more than a few penned lines, was likely to be able to secure permission for something that he was likely to have had to beg and coax Henry for if it was left to him to arrange the visit, of knowing that her influence over the King was so much greater than his own, when the reverse was true just a few months ago, but he was not such a fool that he would ignore the advantages of having Anne make the request on Mary's behalf, especially as it would mean that he would not be suspected of harbouring too much sympathy for Mary, or wanting to give her the chance to conspire with the Imperial ambassador.

If it meant that Mary would be allowed to see Chapuys, did it matter which of them secured permission for the visit?

"It is very kind of you, Your Majesty." He managed to say, hiding his contempt for her as best he could. "I am sure that this will mean a great deal to the Lady Mary."

Anne's smile was a sad one. "I want to be able to help the Lady Mary, Your Grace. I think that we both know how important it is that she takes the Oath, as the King has commanded, and that she is reconciled with her father – and what might happen if she does not."

"Yes, Your Majesty." Brandon responded, as though by rote, unwilling to believe that she might actually want to see Mary and the King reconciled. He was so sure that she would prefer it if Mary refused, so that Henry, in his anger, would order his daughter to the scaffold and leave Elizabeth as his only surviving child, her position in his affections and in the line of succession unchallenged by her older sister. She had every reason to want Mary out of the way, and little cause to want to see her safeguarded against harm. He had heard the rumours that Anne wanted Mary poisoned, though nothing was ever proven against her, and in this way, Mary would die on Henry's orders, and Anne would not be blamed for it.

Anne's eyes bored into his face as she looked at him, so intensely that it felt as though her stare might burn his skin, and when she spoke, her voice was soft and even. "I pray it will not come to that, Your Grace."

* * *

"How can I renounce Rome, or my mother's marriage, after all of my mother's sufferings?" Mary asked despairingly, staring down at the document in front of her and wondering if any other words on parchment had ever been responsible for such human suffering. Before Chapuys was conducted upstairs for their interview, the Duke of Suffolk had brought her a copy of the declaration that the King would have her sign, begging her to read it carefully and, if there was any way in which she could bring herself to sign, to do so for the love of God, and for the sake of her own safety.

"I understand," Chapuys' voice was warm with compassion as he spoke to Mary, his first opportunity to do so since the young girl was summoned back to court, on her father's orders, to wait on the Concubine's little bastard. Conscious of the presence of Lady Bryan, who was listening avidly to every word he said, ready to carry tales back to Anne of everything that was said between him and Mary, he switched to his native Spanish, so that the woman would not be able to understand what was said. What he had to say was not for the ears of anybody who cleaved to Anne. "But may I suggest that you could sign the document, and then make what is called a 'protestation apart'; that is, secretly forswear your submission before witnesses."

"Is that not hypocrisy?" Mary asked, also in Spanish, unwilling to believe what she was hearing. "Surely the Emperor is against my signing such a document?" Her cousin the Emperor was a proud man, and a devout Catholic. Mary was certain that his pride would balk at the thought of his cousin proclaiming herself to be a bastard and declaring that her mother, his aunt, had lived in sin for many years, just as his devotion to his faith would mean that he would never want to hear that she had repudiated papal authority. "And the Holy Father!"

"Lady Mary!" Lady Bryan did not know what was being said, as she did not speak a word of Spanish, but only a fool would fail to realize that the Imperial ambassador would only speak in Spanish to the Lady Mary if he was saying something that he did not want to be overheard. "Speak in English – and you as well, Your Excellency." She added, though her tone was slightly more respectful as she addressed Chapuys. "His Majesty the King and Her Majesty the Queen have been kind enough to grant permission for this visit but they have commanded that I should be present, so if you continue to speak in Spanish, you will leave me with no choice but to ask His Excellency to leave, and to report the matter to the King, who will not be pleased to hear of it."

Mary, knowing that Lady Bryan was more than capable of carrying out her threat, frowned unhappily but Chapuys nodded his agreement. He had already advocated a private protest on Mary's behalf, and that was all that needed to be said privately. There was nothing else he had to say to Mary that Lady Bryan could not hear – indeed, he imagined that the governess, like all those who supported the interests of Elizabeth, would be pleased when she heard what he had to say to Mary.

He sighed before he could speak the words, knowing how difficult it would be for her to hear them. It was difficult for him to say them too, to know that he had been ordered to withdraw the support that Mary so desperately needed. "Lady Mary, I must tell you, in all honesty, that the Emperor is no longer inclined to interfere any further in this matter – after all, you are not his subject," he explained, trying to make his master's stance seem reasonable, less of a betrayal, even though he did not fully believe the excuses, "and... and since he is seeking a new alliance with the King, he would, in truth, be most reluctant to offend him in any way... especially now that the Princess Royal's betrothal to the Duke of Angouleme has been formalized." He finished, applying the title of Princess to Elizabeth, something he had once sworn never to do.

It was the betrothal that had decided the Emperor.

France and Spain seemed to be in constant conflict, and if the King of England chose to support the King of France, then between the two countries, they had the power and the resources to make things very unpleasant for the Emperor. Before, King Francis had repudiated the idea of the betrothal before it could be formalized, which meant that France had not officially acknowledged Elizabeth as her father's legitimate heir but, now that King Francis had taken that step, he had won himself England's friendship, and both he and King Henry would be eager for the excuse to attack Spain with their combined forces.

The Emperor could not afford to offend the King of England, and he would not do so for Mary. Once the seal was set on the betrothal, Chapuys' instructions were to advocate that Mary should take the Oath and ensure her safety and her return to her father's good graces, even if she was to return as his bastard, and he was warned that, if she did not comply with her father's instructions, the Emperor was not going to stand against the King, her father, on her behalf. He would not risk the chance of an alliance with England for Mary's sake.

"Then I am on my own?" Mary asked, fighting tears, unwilling to believe that her last ally could have deserted her like that. "What if I do not sign it?" She had to hear him say it. She had to hear, from the lips of her cousin's ambassador, from a man she had known and trusted for many years and whom she knew to have no love for Anne and a great desire for her restoration before she could truly believe that it was true.

"It is very possible that the King will put you to death."

He did not mince his words, and he did not try to downplay the danger she might face.

It would not be fair for him to give Mary false hope that she might survive her defiance, not when he believed in his heart that, if she continued to defy her father, the King would sign her death warrant and see her marched to the scaffold for her defiance.

It was too cruel to think that, instead of Anne meeting her richly deserved end, Mary might be the one forced to lay her head on the block.

Behind them, he could hear a soft noise from Lady Bryan, though he could not tell if she was expressing her satisfaction at the thought that Mary was being told that she had no hope and encouraged to take the Oath that would remove her as a rival to the woman's charge, or if she might actually be feeling some sympathy towards the young girl now that she could see for herself how much pain was being inflicted on Mary. Chapuys would have liked to think that she was sympathetic but, either way, Lady Bryan's sentiments mattered very little; if Mary took the Oath and was restored to the King's favour, she would no longer have to serve as an attendant to Elizabeth and would no longer be subject to the governess' commands but, if she refused, she was likely to pay for her refusal with her life, in which case it wouldn't matter how Lady Bryan saw her.

Mary stared at the document, the words blurring before her as her eyes filled with the tears that she couldn't shed. Every clause was before her, neatly laid out; her father wanted her to admit that his union with her mother was incestuous and unlawful, he wanted her to admit – freely admit, the document noted, as though the author believed that it was possible that this could be – that she was illegitimate and had no right to succeed to the throne, and she was to acknowledge that her father was the Supreme Head of the Church of England, denying the pope.

Did her father truly believe that she could sign this, without a qualm?

Did he think that she could easily deny her mother, and all she suffered to defend them both from the indignity of being cast aside and stripped of the titles that were theirs by rights?

Why couldn't he relent, for the love of his daughter?

Why couldn't he allow her to keep her self-respect, and her loyalty to her mother?

Outside the Privy closet, in the day nursery, she could hear a bustle of excitement as her father entered, and she could hear the love and laughter in his voice as he greeted little Elizabeth.

Anne's soft laughter mingled with the King's and, when Mary closed her eyes, she could imagine the two of them standing close together, with Elizabeth between them, both of them adoring their child and lavishing her with love, the same love that Mary's parents had lavished on her when she was a little girl and living at court with them, before she was sent away to Ludlow Castle, little knowing that her world was being turned upside down and that, though she left in splendour, honoured as the Princess of Wales, she would have to return in ignominy, scorned as a bastard and forced to act as a servant to her father's other child, the child who had replaced her in his heart.

Elizabeth and Anne were her father's family now, not Mary and her mother, and Mary knew that the only way that she would ever be admitted back to her father's favour was on his terms and his alone, when she did as he commanded and took the Oath, accepting his new wife.

She set the document aside, opening the door of the Privy closet and crossing Elizabeth's bedchamber to stand at the threshold of the day nursery, watching her father romping with Elizabeth, Annie Stafford and Edward Brandon. He had Elizabeth cradled in one arm and he was sparring with Edward with a wooden sword, proclaiming that he would defend the fair princess in his arms with his life. Annie Stafford watched, applauding the game gleefully and even Anne looked amused by his antics, laughing as he romped with the children, as though he was a boy.

Her father didn't even notice that she was watching him, and Mary's fervent prayers that he would sense her presence and turn to greet her, even if he did not cease his game with the children so that he might embrace her, went unanswered. Anne turned, meeting her eyes and giving her a small smile but Mary could not bring herself to return it.

Despite being hampered by the weight of Elizabeth in one arm, Henry acquitted himself well in his fencing match with his nephew, succeeding in disarming young Edward, who accepted his defeat with as much good grace as any eight year old boy could be expected to – though Mary suspect that her father's offer to see to it that Edward would have proper fencing lessons, so that he would do better next time, helped a lot to console him for his defeat.

"My beautiful Elizabeth!" Henry swung his little daughter around in his arms, kissing her cheeks. "Aren't you the most beautiful girl in the world?" Elizabeth nodded, scorning false modesty, and Henry laughed, delighted with her. He kissed her again, holding her close and stroking her hair.

Mary felt a lump in her throat as she remembered a time when she was the one her father would swing around in his arms, hold close and murmur compliments to, cherishing her as though she was the most precious being in the world, the child he worshipped and adored.

_"Mary!" Since she was very young, Mary was told that her father was a very important man, with many important responsibilities that occupied his time but, even though he was very busy, when he saw her standing there, holding her nurse's hand, he hurried over to pick her up in his arms so that their faces were level and she could look into his affectionate eyes._

_"Papa!" Although she saw little of him, Mary was sure that she had the most splendid father that any girl, whether she was a princess or a peasant, could ever be lucky enough to have and she adored him, thinking that he could do no wrong._

_He kissed her cheek, holding her close as he showered compliments on her. "Aren't you beautiful? Aren't you the most beautiful girl in the world?"_

_"I don't know." This was an exchange that they had had many times, almost like a game, and Mary answered as she always did, knowing that her Papa would assure her that she was the most beautiful girl in the world, as he always did, showing her and everybody who could hear them how proud of her he was and how much he loved her, even if she was not the boy he wanted._

_"Yes, you are." He insisted. "How do you feel?"_

_"Well."_

_"Well." He confirmed, kissing her again before handing her off to her nurse. "Papa's busy. Be good, and do everything you are told."_

_He was gone before Mary could nod in response to his instruction but she didn't mind. Even if she didn't see him very often, she knew how much he loved her and she was determined that she would be a good girl, as he had told her, and that she would make her Papa proud of her._

Back then, Mary was her father's only living child and therefore doubly precious to him and to her mother, who were so glad that they had been allowed to have a living child that even a daughter was a great blessing to them but now Elizabeth was her father's darling, worshipped and adored while Mary was neglected and forgotten, knowing that she would be utterly ignored by her father until she did as he demanded, repudiating her mother and herself for the sake of his love.

Her father had Elizabeth.

Her father loved Elizabeth.

He didn't need Mary, so he would not be the one who would reach out to her and do whatever he could to ensure that he could be reconciled with her, not when he had another daughter in Elizabeth. He might be agreeable to being reconciled with her but she could no longer harbour any illusions. If they were to be reconciled, if she was to be welcomed into his heart once more, it would be on his terms and not hers. If she gave in, if she did as he demanded, then she would have a place in his life again, and she was sure that she would be kindly and gently treated, but if she did not, he would be able to send her to her death.

She was not his only child any more, he had Elizabeth and would be able to console himself with her if he ordered Mary's execution, and to reassure himself that he had done the right thing and that, even if it pained him to sign one daughter's death warrant, it was worth it if he could ensure that his other daughter, his favoured daughter, would be safe and secure because of it.

The Emperor was not going to speak on her behalf, he was not going to take the risk of offending her father by standing up for Mary, even if her life was in danger.

She was alone, entirely alone.

* * *

When Anne sent a message to Mary, asking her to visit her in her presence chamber, she was not sure whether or not her stepdaughter would be willing to accept her invitation or whether she would receive a message in response stating that Mary was ill and could not attend her, or even an outright refusal without even the pretence of an excuse. However, she ensured that she was dressed as if ready to receive an important visitor, and she saw to it that her ladies had readied the room so that she might receive Mary in state. It was a calculated risk; she wanted Mary to see that she could be honourably received and treated with respect but, at the same time, she didn't want it to appear that she was flaunting her status as Queen.

Her sister squeezed her shoulder encouragingly as she helped her don her ruby necklace. "You're doing the right thing, Anne, really." She assured her kindly, knowing that Anne was nervous about speaking to Mary, face to face, and that it would take very little to make her so nervous that she was prepared to cancel the planned interview. "Just remember that it's not going to happen overnight. What's important is that you try to reach out to her. You won't be sorry that you've done this for her, I promise."

"I know." Anne said, trying to smile. When she saw Mary watching Henry and Elizabeth that afternoon, when she saw the wistful expression on the girl's face as she watched her father play with her half-sister without ever once acknowledging her presence, she couldn't help but feel sorry for her. Mary was a stubborn girl and she had angered Anne before by refusing to acknowledge her as Queen and by slandering her as Henry's mistress to her face but that did not mean that she wanted to see the poor girl suffer, much less to die. If she could persuade her to take the Oath, if she could ensure that the way was paved for peace to be made between Henry and his daughter, then maybe they could begin to move forward, as a family.

The table was laid for supper for the two of them and the fire was blazing in the grate, as it was a cold evening, even though it was July, when Mary arrived, accompanied by Lady Bryan, who had chaperoned her downstairs from the nursery as Henry had forbidden his daughter to leave Elizabeth's apartments unaccompanied.

As Anne had instructed, Nan Saville curtsied to Mary when the young girl entered the room, according her the respect due to a King's daughter, even an illegitimate one, a degree of respect that had not been accorded to Mary since she returned to the court to serve Elizabeth. "The Lady Mary and Lady Bryan are here, Your Majesty." She announced, ushering the two visitors into the room, though she laid her hand on Lady Bryan's elbow to keep her from stepping forward when Mary did, allowing Mary to be the one to approach Anne first to make her curtsey, as befitted the King's daughter.

Mary's frown was a deep one as she made her curtsey to Anne, knowing that she could not get away with refusing to do so. "Madam." She greeted her, wishing that she had something else to wear besides the green and white gown she was given when Elizabeth's attendants donned the new livery of the Princess Royal. It was a finer garment than any of the gowns that she had brought with her from Hatfield, the plain black ones with which she had had to make do since she was first appointed as a maid to Elizabeth but the embroidered crown and rose on the bodice made it plain that it was the garment of a member of Elizabeth's household, highlighting her fall from her father's favour.

"Welcome, my Lady Mary." Anne greeted her stepdaughter kindly, ignoring the fact that Mary's curtsey was not as deep as it should have been when in the presence of the Queen of England, or the fact that the young girl addressed her as 'madam' rather than as 'Your Majesty', a pointed indication that she viewed her as the Marquess of Pembroke rather than as her Queen. "I am pleased that you were able to accept my invitation. I thought that you and I might dine together this evening, and talk privately."

"It is very kind of you to invite me, my lady." Mary said, trying to sound respectful enough to ensure that Anne would not have cause to complain of her conduct to the King, who was certain to take her side, but, at the same time, not so respectful that it would appear as though she acknowledged the woman as her Queen. If she took the Oath, she would have no choice but to pay her respects to Anne as her Queen but she had not yet made up her mind on that score, and the idea of pretending that Anne had a right to the title that had belonged to her mother was a painful one, so painful that she thought that she might prefer to refuse, even if that meant that she would end by following men like Bishop Fisher and Sir Thomas More to the scaffold.

Anne sat down in one of the chairs at the table, motioning for Mary to sit opposite her. Only two places were set, so Mary knew that she need not expect that anybody else would be joining them for the meal. It was just the two of them, and that was the best thing for them both.

"I thought that we should talk, Mary." She said, as soon as they were seated and the food was laid out before them. "Just the two of us."

"Yes, madam?" Mary did not truly expect that Anne would try to poison her, not when they were dining alone and it would be obvious to all who was responsible if there was any foul play, but even so, she did not feel comfortable eating or drinking until she saw that Anne had begun to dine, indicating that it was safe for Mary to follow her example and begin on her meal herself. The food was excellent, better than anything she was offered since she had returned to court, and she ate with good appetite, so pleased to be away from Elizabeth's apartments and the other maids-in-waiting that even Anne seemed like a good companion by comparison.

"I understand that the King has commanded that you are to take the Oath, Lady Mary." Anne said, thinking that it would do her no good to skirt the important issue. It was best for them to get it out in the open as soon as possible instead of dancing around it and pretending that it did not exist. "I have invited you hear to ask you... no, to plead with you to take the Oath." She saw Mary stiffen at her appeal but she persevered, not wanting to give Mary a chance to refuse before she could say her piece. "I know that you will probably find this difficult to believe, Mary, but I truly want for you to be reconciled with your father, and I would like to be a friend to you. This division, it's not good for you, or for the King..."

"Or for Elizabeth." Mary interrupted, her tone challenging. She wanted Anne to know that she was not fooled by her words, and that she knew that her true motive was not to see Mary reconciled with her father, she wanted an end to the conflict within the royal family for Elizabeth's sake more than anybody else's, so that she could be sure that her child's place as Princess would be unchallenged. She wanted Mary to remove herself as a potential obstacle to Elizabeth's succession, so that she could be sure that she would see her child as Queen of England one day.

"Or for Elizabeth." Anne agreed.

"You want me to take the Oath because you know that it's best for _your_ daughter if I do!" Mary's outburst drew an outraged exclamation from Lady Bryan, and murmurs of disapproval from several of Anne's ladies but Anne waved a hand to them to keep them from interfering until Mary had said her piece. "You want to see Elizabeth honoured as the princess, even though she's just a bastard! You want me to betray my mother by pretending that you are the Queen of England and you want me to go along with your heresy by calling my father the Supreme Head of the Church, denying His Holiness the pope!" Tears ran down her cheeks and she pushed Anne away when she would have approached her to comfort her.

"Yes, I do." Anne admitted openly. There was no point in lying to Mary, or treating her as a fool. The girl was intelligent, too intelligent for Anne to be able to pacify her with pat assurances. She only hoped that she was intelligent enough to recognize the need for her to take the Oath. "It's better for me, and for Elizabeth, and for the King if you take the Oath, but it's even more important for you. You know what will happen if you don't take it. Please believe me when I tell you that that is not something that I want to see happen."

Mary didn't want to believe that Anne could want to protect her from her father. She was just pretending to have Mary's interests at heart, for the sake of herself and Elizabeth, not because she wanted to see Mary restored to favour. "Don't you?" She asked challengingly.

"No." Anne responded firmly, meeting Mary's gaze squarely and hoping that her stepdaughter would be able to read her sincerity in her eyes, and know that no matter what had happened before, she truly did not want to see her dead. "I've been in the Tower myself, Mary, remember." She reminded her. "Believe me, I know how lucky I am that your father started to question the allegations against me in time to stop the executions. If he still believed that I'd betrayed him, I would be dead now." She saw Mary shrug, as though to indicate that she would not have objected to it if she had died, as long as it meant that her new stepmother would be somebody who would be willing to champion her interests and press Henry to agree to her restoration. "If the King thinks that you are a traitor – and that is exactly what he will think if you refuse to take the Oath – he will be prepared to see you executed. There's only way that you can keep that from happening. You know that as well as I do." She rose, moving over to crouch next to Mary's chair, so that their eyes were level. "Whatever it takes, you have to make sure that you stay alive. Nothing is more important than that."

Mary felt tears beginning to prick the back of her eyelids. She would have preferred to believe that Anne was lying, that she had reason to believe that Mary's father was ready to forgive her and to welcome her back to court without her being obliged to take the Oath and that she was trying to make sure that Mary took the Oath before then but she knew that this was not the case. Her father had made his decision and, if he wanted to execute her, there was nobody who would step in on her behalf to keep him from doing so.

"My mother..." Her voice was whisper-soft and tears streamed down her cheeks.

She had never intended to speak of her mother in front of Anne, the woman who had caused her such pain in the years before her death, years that she should have spent in honour and comfort, in the bosom of her loving family, with the company of her devoted husband and daughter and perhaps even a grandchild or two by now, if Mary had been allowed to marry and to have a family of her own instead of being kept unmarried because no man would take her when her legitimacy was in question and, even after the pope confirmed that she was legitimate, her father was unwilling to allow her to marry, for fear that she and her husband might pose a threat to his rule and to Elizabeth's status as heir.

Even if he did not kill her, even if he was prepared to show her some mercy, the best that Mary could possibly hope for from her father was that she would be left to continue as Elizabeth's attendant, growing old in her sister's service and watching Elizabeth growing up in luxury as the Princess Royal, adored by both of her parents, until the day came when she had to watch her sister getting married and starting a family, while Mary was left as a spinster until the day she died.

"Your mother wouldn't want you to suffer, Mary, and she wouldn't want you to die." Anne told her firmly. Mary's loyalty to her mother was touching, and she felt guilty that she had not done something to see to it that they could see one another before Katherine died, but she felt sure that Katherine would never have wanted to see her daughter continue defy Henry for her sake, not when it could mean that Henry would send Mary to her death. "If it was Elizabeth, I know that I would want her to say whatever she had to say about me if it would keep her safe. What matters is that you keep yourself safe."

Mary nodded automatically, finding herself wishing that she could speak to her mother about this now, to ask her advice and to explain to her that, no matter what she had to say or sign, it would not change the way she felt about her mother and it would not change the fact that she knew the truth about the validity of her parents' marriage and her own legitimacy. She listened to Anne's assurances that, should she take the Oath, she would be treated well, honoured as the King's daughter and welcomed as a stepdaughter by Anne herself with only half an ear as she tried to calm herself so that she could speak again.

She looked up, locking her gaze with Anne's. "You know that, even if I sign it, it doesn't mean that I believe what I have signed." She said quietly, so that only Anne would be able to hear her words.

"I'm not a fool, Mary." Anne countered calmly. "You won't be the first or the last to take the Oath without truly meaning it, and I imagine that there are more than a few people at court who treat me as Queen without actually seeing me as Queen." Henry might be able to convince himself that, if Mary took the Oath, it represented her total submission to his will and her acceptance that he was right about the validity of his union with Katherine and about his religious supremacy but Anne knew better than to think that Mary was ready to accept that yet. Perhaps she might never be ready to accept it. "That doesn't matter to me. What matters is that you sign, and keep yourself safe. That's all I ask of you, Mary." She laid a gentle hand on Mary's shoulder, smiling when the girl did not pull away from her. "It's going to be alright." She said gently, soothingly, as she might have spoken to Elizabeth if her little girl was hurt or frightened. "Just take the Oath, and I'll make sure that everything will be alright."

* * *

"How are the preparations for our trip going?" Henry asked genially when he came in to bid her goodnight. He kissed her hand, smiling warmly at her and exercising every ounce of self-control he possessed to keep himself from pulling her into his arms. Since Anne's return, since she had made it plain to him that she did not want him to touch her, he found himself wanting her more than ever. He wanted her to want him again, he wanted to know that she still loved him but he knew that if he tried to push her, he would succeed in driving her away, perhaps permanently. "Do you think that you'll have enough time to get new gowns arranged for yourself and for Elizabeth in time?" He asked, guessing that Anne would want to see to it that she and Elizabeth would have gowns that were made in the latest fashions, so that they would not be shown up next to the French Queen and princesses.

"Yes, we should have the time, if I get in extra seamstresses." Anne reported. She hesitated before she continued, wondering how best to break the news to him, but she forged ahead. "And I'll need to see to it that Mary has some suitable gowns if she is to accompany us. She'll need more than what she has now."

"She has her uniform for Elizabeth's household." Henry pointed out. He was still in two minds about whether or not Mary was to be allowed to accompany them to France; he did not want to allow it to look as though he viewed his illegitimate daughter as somebody who deserved to be presented to the King and Queen of France, and she would have to be carefully guarded if they did bring her with them, to make sure that the Emperor's agents didn't get a chance to abduct Mary and carry her back to Spain with them but, at the same time, he wasn't sure if he could take the risk of leaving Mary behind in England if he and Anne left with Elizabeth, or if they would find that Mary would make an attempt to usurp the throne in his absence. If she did travel with them, she would travel as a servant. "That's good enough for her."

"I disagree." Anne told him calmly, crossing the room to her desk and extracting a folded document, which she passed into Henry's hand. "The Lady Mary brought this to me, not half an hour ago." She explained, seeing his eyes widen when he registered what she was looking at. "She signed it in my presence, and in the presence of my sister and my chaplain. It's her submission, Henry. She's signed the Oath, she's agreed to everything you've asked of her. She's proven her loyalty to you, and to me, and I think that she should be rewarded for that, don't you?"

"Of course." Henry said automatically, staring at the document, and at his daughter's signature – she had signed herself as plain Mary Tudor, the first time that she had written to him without claiming the title of Princess since he had parted from her mother – unable to believe what it was he was seeing, and what Anne was saying to him. He knew that she would never joke about something like this, even if things weren't strained between them, but he was half-convinced that there must be a mistake of some kind. "Why would Mary come to you to take the Oath instead of coming to me?" He asked, surprised that his daughter would approach her stepmother in this matter rather than her father.

"I spoke with Mary this evening, we ate supper together and I explained to her why I wanted her to take the Oath, and why that was what you wanted." Anne responded, omitting mention of the fact that she did not believe for a moment that Mary truly believed in any of the clauses that she had signed her name to. If Henry could not figure out for himself that his daughter's submission was motivated by her fear for her life, then she was not going to be the one to enlighten him. She shrugged gracefully. "Clearly, she agreed that it was for the best that she take the Oath." She remarked calmly, as though Henry should not be surprised that she had managed to persuade Mary of the need to take the Oath, something that nobody else had been able to convince her of before now.

Despite his resolve to keep his distance from her until she indicated that she would welcome his advances once more, Henry tugged Anne into his arms and hugged her tightly before releasing her, feeling disappointed that her stiff posture had not relaxed in his embrace, not even a little. "Thank you, sweetheart." He told her warmly, kissing her hand again and wondering how she had managed to bring about this miracle, one that he thought nobody would be able to achieve. "You've worked a miracle!"

Although he had resolved that, if Mary did not submit to his will and prove herself to be a loyal subject, he would prosecute her for treason, regardless of his fatherly affection for her, he was deeply relieved that he would not have to do this. Despite Mary's obstinacy and her disobedience, he still cared for his daughter and, now that she had taken the Oath, he would not have to be put in a position where the security of his realm would oblige him to send his child to his death.

Anne had managed to get through to Mary, and spared him that.

"Mary has done what we asked of her," Anne was saying and he looked up from the document to meet her eyes. "She's signed the Oath, as you commanded, and she has promised me that she will treat me as her Queen from now on, and that she will accept that Elizabeth is your heir. It's time for us to fulfil our side of the bargain now."

"Yes, it is." Henry answered absently, still trying to adjust to the news.

"She is your daughter, and she needs to be treated like your daughter from now on." Anne told him, her tone brooking no argument. She was determined that, now that Mary had taken the Oath, she would not waste a minute, she would begin to make improvements to the young girl's situation straight away. She was going to make sure that Mary was not given cause to regret her submission because of the way she was treated in the aftermath of her capitulation. She would show her that, even if she had qualms about it at first, she would soon realize the benefits of it. "I think that we should see to it that she is removed from Elizabeth's service straight away, she shouldn't have to act as a maid even one more day. We should see to it that, tomorrow morning, she can move into an apartment befitting her station, and make sure that she has maids to serve her and that she has the means to live and dress as her station requires."

"You're right, sweetheart." Henry agreed, pleased to think that he would now be able to be generous to Mary, and to imagine his daughter's pleasure when he went to her to greet her as a father, and to let her know that, now that she had proven her loyalty to him as a subject and her love and obedience to him as a daughter, he would show her how a loyal and loving daughter would be treated, and ensure that she knew that, despite everything, he loved her still and was now prepared to welcome her into his family. Anne had shown him that she was willing to be kind and generous to Mary, and Elizabeth would be delighted when she learned that she had such a good, loving sister as Mary would surely prove herself to be.

"Then you'll speak to your chamberlain about making arrangements for Mary's new accommodation." Anne pressed him. She could see to the matter of the maids who would tend to Mary's needs – and until new girls could be found to wait on her stepdaughter, Elizabeth would not miss the service of a couple of her maidservants if they were transferred to attend Mary – but it was for Henry to give orders for Mary's accommodation to be improved. There were certainly plenty of apartments that could be made suitable for Mary, and that would reflect her new position as a member of the royal family rather than as an outcast.

"First thing in the morning, sweetheart." Henry promised, smiling at her and feeling pleased to see her willingness to make sure that Mary was well-treated. It was no more than Anne's duty, as Mary's stepmother, to stand in a mother's place to her, of course, but given what had happened between them in the past, he would not have been especially surprised if Anne was less than enthusiastic about making arrangements for his elder daughter. "And I will see Mary in the morning too, and let her know that she still has a father who will love her."

"Good." Anne had once thought that, if Henry ever decided that he wanted to welcome Mary into his life again, it would pose a threat to her and to Elizabeth but her feelings were different now. Mary deserved to be a part of her father's life, and she deserved to be treated well, by Anne and by Henry. Henry had committed himself to defending Elizabeth's legitimacy and was insistent on the fact that his elder daughter was a bastard, so Mary was no threat to them, but her restoration to favour could do a great deal for all of them.

Henry was a man who needed the softening influence of as many members of his family as possible and, if Mary could help to make him more like the man with whom Anne had first fallen in love and less like the man who had proved himself to be capable of ordering his loved ones to their deaths when they displeased him, it would be good for the whole country.

"We will be able to be a family now." Henry said, feeling awed at the thought. Had Katherine agreed to an annulment when he first broached the issue with her, Mary would never have been put in a position where she had to stand against her father instead of allowing herself to be welcomed into the bosom of the royal family but now that Katherine was dead and Mary had seen the truth for herself and accepted it, his family did not need to be divided any longer. He would have Mary back, he had his darling Elizabeth and, in time, he would have Anne's love again.

Surely everything was going to be alright for him from now on.


	16. Chapter 16

**_13th July 1536_ **

Lady Bryan had come to see her first thing in the morning, and Mary could see at once from the governess' posture that things had changed for her, and for the better.

The day before, she woke to a sharp order to fetch water for Elizabeth's washing, and she was obliged to stand behind her little sister throughout the meal, holding a folded linen towel in case the toddler needed to wipe her hands. Today, Lady Bryan curtsied to her before she spoke, her head inclined respectfully and her tone was deferential as she told her that the King's steward had sent word that her new apartment was ready and waiting for her, and offered to see to it that serving men would be sent for to carry her belongings down to her new quarters.

It was as though Lady Bryan could not remember that there was a time when she had treated Mary with a degree of disrespect that should never be accorded to any nobly-born girl, let alone the King's own daughter, as though she had never ordered her around like a humble drudge and heaped her with scorn as a bastard, even daring to threaten to strike her if she should disobey any instructions she was given or if she refused to accord little Elizabeth the honours due to a princess. Mary imagined that, while Lady Bryan was ready enough to mistreat her when it was plain to all that her father's patience with her was at a low ebb and nobody could rule out the possibility that he might call for her death, she would want to forget that it had ever happened now that Mary's restoration to her father's good graces seemed a certainty.

Those who had bullied and threatened Mary when she was out of favour would be praying that she did not bear tales of the insults she had endured at their hands to her father once he welcomed her into his life once more, in case he became indignant on her behalf and punished them for it, angry with them for daring to mistreat somebody with his blood in her veins, and for scorning his acknowledged daughter, ignoring the fact that it was her exile from his good graces and his fury with her over her refusal to yield to his will and take the Oath when he commanded her to do so that would have given them the confidence to behave towards her as they had, and as long as she could remain in favour, she could be sure that nobody would dare to treat her like that again.

She had the King's protection now... and Anne's.

In some ways, it was strange to think of the power of so small a gesture as signing her name to a paper when it was presented to her; by signing, she had won her release from Elizabeth's service, saved herself from the prospect of execution on the orders of her own father, and won her way back into the good graces of her father and into a comfortable, honoured position at court. However, while it was a simple thing in some ways, taking the Oath was also one of the most momentous tasks that Mary was ever called upon to carry out, if not the most momentous, and despite Anne's attempts to persuade her that her mother would not have wanted to see her suffer for her defiance and place her life at risk, Mary still felt as though she had betrayed her.

Katherine of Aragon, Queen of England, had spent the last four years of her life exiled from the court, shut away in a bleak manor in the country with an ever-diminishing household and allowance, forbidden to receive visitors or letters from her friends or even from her own child, yet she had clung to the truth. Not even for the promise of a more comfortable establishment, a royal household and a generous allowance, coupled with the promise of the King's friendship, could tempt her into renouncing her rights as Queen, any more than the threat of execution could force her to say that she was not married when she was.

Mary Tudor, once called the Princess of Wales, had tried to resist and to emulate her sainted mother but she lacked her mother's strength and, when faced with the prospect of death, she had yielded, trading her oath for security and a more comfortable life, and she couldn't entirely convince herself that her mother would understand the reason for her betrayal.

But there was no sense in harbouring regrets now.

What was done was done.

She had taken the Oath and, by now, her submission would have been made known to the people, who would be told that the Lady Mary, the natural daughter of King Henry the Eighth, had at long last seen the error of her ways and come to understand that her mother had never been her father's wife or the Queen of England and that she had accepted that Anne was the rightful Queen while Elizabeth was the only Princess of England, the heir to the throne, unless Anne bore a son, just as she had accepted that her father was the Supreme Head of the Church of England, while the pope had no true power and was nothing more than the Bishop of Rome.

Her submission would be used to encourage any remaining subjects of her father's who still refused to accept the new order that he had forced upon the country, as a symbol of the rightness of his cause and as a reassurance to them that they could swear to uphold Elizabeth's rights as the heir to the throne and accept Anne as their lawful Queen without feeling that they would be betraying the girl they had once looked to as Princess of Wales and future Queen of England and there was nothing that she could do about that.

If she protested, all she would achieve would be to incur her father's anger.

He would demand to know why she should object to her submission being made public knowledge, since she had sworn that she accepted each clause, feeling that, if she truly believed in what she had signed and if she was truly loyal to him, she had no reason to wish for her submission and her acceptance of the Oath to be concealed from the people. He would insist that she should explain why she would not wish to see the English people profit by her example instead of having them mistakenly cling to her cause, believing her to be his trueborn daughter and wanting to see her rights upheld, and there was no explanation that she could give that would satisfy him.

If she allowed her father to see any hint that she regretted taking the Oath, any hint that she wished for her submission to remain private or that she had reservations about the clauses she had sworn to, she would place herself in even more danger than she had been in before she took the Oath, rendering her sacrifice worthless.

She had saved herself from possible execution by taking the Oath but, if she did anything that would make her father distrust her submission, nothing would save her. If he believed that she had sworn falsely, then nothing she could say or do would ever have the power to convince him of her loyalty to him, both as his daughter and as his subject.

All she could really do was to accept, with as good a grace as she could muster, the rewards that would come to her for yielding, rewards that she was so thankful for that she felt ashamed of it... but what girl, born to the title of Princess but forced to lead a servant's life, would not feel relief and joy at the prospect of her servitude ending? What loving daughter would not long for the moment when she would be restored to her father's favour and could know that, despite everything that had happened, everything he had done to her, he still loved and cared for her?

She wanted to feel her father's arms around her, to feel the brush of his lips against her cheek and to hear the warmth in his voice as he told her that he loved her and that all would be well.

Surely that could not be wrong.

"Her Majesty the Queen has commanded that I am to see to it that you are given whatever assistance you require to pack your belongings, so that they may be sent to your new rooms, my Lady Mary." Lady Bryan told her, bobbing another curtsey and smiling at Mary, as though she was truly pleased to see her restored to favour and accorded the honours due to a King's daughter – or perhaps she was simply glad to know that, from this morning onwards, she would no longer have the task of supervising Mary as a member of Elizabeth's household, forced to balance a need for a measure of caution and respect in her dealings with her with the need to make it plain that she viewed her as a bastard and nothing more so that she would not come under suspicion by Anne and her supporters, who would never allow anybody to serve in Elizabeth's household if they were not utterly convinced of their loyalty to the toddler as Princess.

After more than two and a half years of giving orders to her and of taking care never to extend the slightest courtesy to her that might be viewed with suspicion if word of it was carried to the ears of the King and Queen yet, at the same time, never able to be fully certain whether she might be restored as Princess and as the next heir to the throne, without warning, able to exact revenge against those who had treated her badly, Mary could imagine that Lady Bryan would be pleased to see the back of her, and to know that the other ladies who tended to Elizabeth would never give her the same trouble.

The other young women who had served with her as Elizabeth's maids of honour were daughters of good families but they were ordinary courtiers, dependent on the good will of the King and the Queen, and unlike Mary, who viewed her service in Elizabeth's household as an injustice and a burden, their places were an honour to them and they would do nothing to jeopardize them.

"Thank you, Lady Bryan." Mary's tone was cool. "If you can arrange for a maidservant to be sent to pack my belongings, I would be grateful for that." She did not have very many belongings these days; aside from the small box containing a few pieces of jewellery, mostly of little value, and the furs that her mother was able to leave to her, and a couple of books, she owned only her clothes, and even they were not plentiful, especially as she had no intention of bringing the green and white gowns and hoods she was given as a member of Elizabeth's household. The trunk she was supplied with to convey her belongings from Hatfield to court would fit them all in, with plenty of space to spare, and it would have taken her less than half an hour to pack her things herself but she was not going to perform that task, not if she could help it.

Things had changed for her; she would be able to get used to being waited on once more, as she ought to be, instead of being the one called upon to wait on another, and others at court would have to get used to seeing her waited on, and to following her orders.

She had had to pay a high price for her restoration to favour, one that she would never fully forgive herself for paying, and she intended to enjoy all of the benefits of it.

"Of course, my lady." Lady Bryan said at once. "I will see to it right away." She bustled out of the room, returning presently with one of Elizabeth's serving women in tow. The woman, clad in a dark green gown and white apron and cap that signified her standing as one of the lower-ranking woman attendants in Elizabeth's household, curtsied deeply to Mary before obeying Lady Bryan's command and beginning to fold Mary's gowns neatly, stowing them in the trunk.

At first, Mary was inclined to avert her eyes, knowing that the black gowns the woman was packing away were shabby, at least compared to the beautiful gowns that Elizabeth wore, rich garments that Anne showered on her little daughter and that the maid was likely to be used to tending to, and not wanting to meet her eyes and to know that she would be marvelling at the idea that a King's daughter could be so ill-provided for, but she decided against looking away, not wanting to act as though she was ashamed.

If she was ill-provided for, it was not her fault.

Her father was the one who had neglected to supply her with an allowance that would have given her the means to dress in the manner that her royal blood commanded, nor had he made provision for Lady Bryan to have access to funds that would allow her to purchase cloth for new gowns for her. He had been content to leave her in shabby, worn gowns and patched petticoats and shifts even though it was plain from the lavishness of Anne's wardrobe and even little Elizabeth's that he was certainly not short of money – though his wealth had not stopped him leaving her mother neglected and in poverty either, not even when she was ill and a few moderate comforts might have made a great difference to her, perhaps even extending her life... though that was unlikely to be his desire.

Mary bit her lower lip, trying to banish her feelings of anger towards her father for everything that he had done to her and, worst of all, to her beloved mother.

When she was told that her mother's death was celebrated at court, that her father had thanked God, declaring that the death of the woman who was his loving, devoted wife had freed him from the threat of war and that the court had enjoyed many festivities afterwards, as though they considered the death of a good woman who had never harmed them, or anybody else, to be cause for feasting and celebration, she didn't want to believe that he could be so callous, and she told herself that she didn't believe that he could be so callous... but she had her doubts and she couldn't keep herself from thinking of it now, when the man who had caused them both such pain was ready to welcome her back into his life.

If her father had celebrated her mother's death as though she was his enemy rather than a woman who had loved him more than anybody else and who was so loyal to him that she had refused any suggestion that she might raise an army against him to win back her rights and those of her child, a woman had only ever sought to stand by the truth of their marriage, to defend their child from bastardy and to keep him from committing a sin that would have marred his soul, condemning him to Hell, how could she ever look at him without thinking of that?

How could she ever bring herself to trust him, to believe him if he told her that he loved her, even if he told her that she was still the pearl of his world?

But how could she not love her father, when she was the only parent that he had left, the man on whose favour she would depend?

She wanted her father to love her, and she wanted to love him.

She _needed_ to love him.

It did not take the maid long to pack her belongings, and once the trunk was fastened shut, Lady Bryan summoned a strong serving man to carry it to her new quarters. Once the trunk had been carried out, the governess remained in the large chamber that Mary had, until now, shared with five other girls, clearly anxious for Mary to depart and for her responsibility for her to be at an end, although she covered this eagerness with an ingratiating smile and a bobbed curtsey. "I hope that you will be comfortable in your new accommodations, my Lady Mary."

Mary's only response was a nod. She would have liked to say that she was certain that she would be happier and far more comfortable in her new apartment, no matter how large or how small, how plain or how richly furnished it was, than she had been as a member of the establishment that Lady Bryan had presided over on little Elizabeth's behalf but she said nothing, not wanting to shame herself by sinking to such a level. From now on, she would have quarters of her own and she would no longer be subject to the governess, she was happy with that. She didn't say another word, sweeping out of the chamber and making her way to the day nursery, knowing that she would be expected to pay her respects to little Elizabeth before she could leave for her new quarters.

She had sworn that she acknowledged her young half-sister as the only legitimate daughter of their father, the rightful Princess of England, and she was expected to treat her as such. It was best for her to begin that now, in the privacy of the nursery, as she would soon be expected to do it before others.

Little Elizabeth was prancing around the room on the back of a hobby horse, yet another recent gift from her doting mother, who never seemed to tire of lavishing toys and gowns and even jewels on her child, as she chased Annie Stafford around the room, but she stopped her game when Mary entered the room, looking up at her older sister with curious eyes and immediately noticing that she was not wearing the green and white gown that her ladies had worn since she was vested with the title of Princess Royal. Instead, she was wearing one of the black gowns that she used to wear all the time, and Elizabeth frowned at the sight of it.

"That's not as pretty as your green gown." She told Mary bluntly, wondering why she would wear such a plain, dark gown when her new gowns were so much nicer. Elizabeth knew that she would never wear an ugly gown if she could help it, not when she had so many pretty ones and she couldn't understand why Mary would want to.

Mary smiled, curtseying deeply to Elizabeth before crouching down to her sister's level, holding out her arms and smiling when Elizabeth ran into them, allowing her to hug her.

Three years ago, when she first learned that Anne was pregnant and that her father was determined to call his unborn child with her his first legitimate child, relegating Mary to bastardy, she had thought that she would hate her unborn half-sibling, resenting it forever because it would be the child of Anne Boleyn, and she dreaded the idea that the child might be a boy, knowing that her father would see a boy as proof that God looked kindly on his decision to set Mary's mother aside and to declare their union invalid, and that He viewed Anne as England's true Queen and that there would be no saving him then.

A boy would have meant the end of Mary's hope that her father would come to his senses and reconcile with her mother, restoring them to their rightful places

When word came that Anne had borne a daughter, Mary was pleased and relieved to hear it and, as Chapuys had said, it was proof that God had abandoned Anne, who had been so confident that she would bear the long hoped-for prince but, at the same time, she also felt a measure of pity for the new baby, who had disappointed their father in the same way that she had. The King had fought so long and so hard to make Anne his wife and, after everything that he had done in order to call her the Queen, Mary was sure that he would feel betrayed that she had only been able to give him a second girl and she hoped that, even if she was angry with Anne for her failure, he would not bear a grudge against baby Elizabeth.

She didn't feel any affection towards her, however, nor did she expect or want to. She told herself that, although Elizabeth was innocent, she was still the child of Anne Boleyn, the woman who had caused her and her mother great harm, and she did not want to love her.

At Hatfield, however, when she spent time with Elizabeth, she found it difficult to remain cold in the face of the charms of the sweet baby who was innocent of wrong-doing, much less against the playful toddler who was so bright and full of life. Whatever her mother had done, Elizabeth was blameless and she was Mary's sister. Mary could not keep her heart closed to her. When she saw Elizabeth's attendants slip away, leaving her behind, she felt angry with them for neglecting the baby and protective of her sister, and when Lady Bryan tried to keep her from spending time with Elizabeth, she resented the governess for it. Elizabeth was perhaps the only person at Hatfield who never treated her with scorn, never stared at her or whispered the word 'bastard' when they saw her, and the time that Mary was allowed to spend with her sister was precious to her.

"I can't wear that gown any more, Your Highness." She told Elizabeth, using the child's formal style and trying to explain it in a way that a child would understand. "I'm not going to be one of your ladies any more, so I can't wear the same gown that they do, do you understand? The King has commanded it." She added, before Elizabeth could ask why she was to leave her household, or object to the idea of losing one of her attendants. The little girl might know that Mary was her sister but she had also become accustomed to seeing her play the role of a servant and would not know that, under ordinary circumstances, it would be very unusual for a King to demand that one of his children should serve the other, regardless of the question of legitimacy.

Even if Henry Fitzroy was born a girl instead of a boy, Mary was certain that her father would never have commanded that his illegitimate child should come to Ludlow Castle to wait on her and, even though she knew that her mother was dismayed by the King's decision to recognize the boy, and later to ennoble him as Duke of Richmond and Somerset, she would never have wanted to see Fitzroy placed as a page in Mary's household.

"Oh." Elizabeth wasn't sure how she felt about that; she didn't think that Mary liked being one of her ladies, not the way the other ladies seemed to, and she seemed to be pleased that she was to leave her household but, while she didn't want Mary to have to be her lady if she didn't want to, she knew that she was going to miss her if she left. "Will you still come to play with me, Mary?" She asked, hoping that she wasn't going to have to say 'goodbye' to her forever. She didn't want to lose Mary or anybody else. "And to tell me stories and sing songs?"

Mary smiled, touched by the affection in the toddler's voice and by Elizabeth's sincere desire for reassurance that she would continue to be part of her life. It was nice to know that her affection for her little sister was returned. "Of course, sister." She promised. "I'm not leaving the court – I'm going to be living in a different part of the palace, that's all. I will still be able to come here to see you, and perhaps you'll be able to come to my rooms to visit me." She suggested cheerfully, putting a bright face on it so that Elizabeth would not be distressed.

"That will be nice." Elizabeth said, thinking that this sounded like fun. She liked to visit Mama's apartment so visiting Mary's apartment would be nice too. She put her arms around Mary's neck and planted a smacking kiss on her cheek. "I hope your rooms will be very nice." She said earnestly. She knew that the Lady Mary wouldn't be allowed to have rooms as nice as those that she occupied, or as nice as her Mama's, because they were the Princess Royal and the Queen and the most important ladies in all of England, but Mary was the King's daughter and Elizabeth hoped that she would have a pretty apartment and lovely gowns to wear.

"I hope so too." Mary said, kissing Elizabeth one more time before she rose and, curtseying to the toddler again, she went to the door of the nursery, where Lady Bryan was waiting for her, flanked by two maids-in-waiting – Mary recognized them as the same two that were briefly assigned to her service after Anne's arrest, when her father began to show her some small kindnesses, but who were reassigned to Elizabeth's household when she was summoned back to court, removed from Mary's service as a stark message that she could expect no privileges or favours from her father until she took the Oath.

Lady Bryan dipped a curtsey to her, indicating the two maids. "Her Majesty the Queen has commanded that, until she may discuss the matter of your household with you and arrange that you shall be suitably attended, as befits your station, Mistress Cecily and Mistress Maria will attend you, with your permission." She explained, though she surely knew that Mary would never object to the idea of having attendants of her own to wait on her.

"That is acceptable to me, Lady Bryan." Mary said, feeling a thrill of pleasure at the word 'household'; Anne had promised that she would be well-treated if she took the Oath, and despite the fact that she did not like her, she believed that she meant what she said when she made that promise but she had not known what Anne's view of good treatment would be, whether her stepmother might think that she was doing all that Mary could ask of her if she released her from Elizabeth's service and gave her quarters of her own. The fact that Anne intended to have a household formed for her was a sign that she truly intended to honour her as the King's daughter, even if that household would not be as large as the one assigned to Elizabeth, not by half, and Mary could appreciate that Anne was being more generous than she was obliged to be.

At least Anne did not intend half-measures.

A groom was outside the nursery, waiting to conduct her down to her new apartment and Mary, after bidding a chilly farewell to Lady Bryan, followed him, with her two maids following immediately behind her. Although she had spent her childhood at Whitehall, before she was sent away to Ludlow, what seemed like a lifetime ago, the palace was far too large for anybody to ever hope to be able to know it entirely, even if they spent their lives within the walls. However, as Mary walked, she found herself recognizing some of the corridors, knowing that they were walking in the wing that housed the Queen's apartment, the luxurious, spacious rooms that were once her mother's, before they were turned over to Anne.

The groom stopped outside a heavy oak door, bowing deeply as he pushed open the door and stepped back to allow Mary to enter her new quarters.

At a glance, she saw that she had not been so well-housed since the days when she was still allowed to call herself Princess without being accused of treason for doing so.

The main chamber was a large one, with space for her to sit with her attendants, and a carved table by the fireside. The room was panelled in rich wood and hung with fine tapestries, with wide, high windows allowing the light to stream in. The furniture was in the French style and, as Anne was known to favour all things French, Mary suspected that she had played a role in deciding how these rooms were to be furnished. The main chamber led into a spacious bedchamber dominated by a great carved bed, with velvet hangings. It was not the equal to her accommodation as a princess, but she would be comfortable here, at least.

At the sound of footsteps in the corridor, and cries to make way for the Queen, Mary hastened out into the main chamber, waiting until Anne had crossed the threshold of her apartment before sweeping a deep curtsey, knowing that she had a part to play and that she needed to play it well, even in her own quarters. If she could accustom herself to according Anne the honours due to a Queen when she met her privately, maybe a time would come when it would feel natural to do so in public, and she would not need to worry about giving her true feelings away.

"Your Majesty." She murmured politely, remaining posed in her curtsey, with her eyes downcast, as etiquette demanded.

"Rise, my Lady Mary, please." Anne told her hastily, moving to take Mary's hand and help her up. She smiled at her stepdaughter, hiding the uneasiness she felt in the company of the young girl whom she knew still looked on her as an enemy and hoping that a time would come when she would be able to think of Mary as a friend, and to know that Mary felt the same way about her. "This isn't a formal visit, I just wanted to see if your new apartment was to your liking."

"Yes, thank you, Your Majesty." Mary responded truthfully, though she thought that she would have been happy with even the ordinary chamber assigned to a lady-in-waiting, as long as that meant that she would have privacy and reasonable comfort. She was certainly not going to complain about being offered more than she had expected. "Your Majesty is kind to arrange it." She added, only half-meaning what she said. It was nice of Anne to have made an effort to see to it that her new rooms would be comfortable, and she was honest enough to admit that, but it didn't feel right to be thanking Anne for them when she had enjoyed much richer accommodation before Anne caught her father's eye.

"If there is anything you need to be more comfortable, I hope that you'll let me know." Anne said, glancing around the room. Giving directions as to the furnishing of Mary's new rooms had kept her busy last night, and servants had continued the work after she had retired to bed but, at such short notice, they had not been able to do as much as she would have liked and, but for her determination to see to it that Mary would be removed from Elizabeth's household as soon as possible, she would have preferred to have longer to make preparations. "I want these rooms to be as you like them, so don't hesitate to let me know."

Now that Mary had taken the Oath, Henry would need to arrange an allowance of some sort for his daughter, so that she would have the means the live at court and to maintain the household that Anne would arrange for her but, until Mary had money of her own, to spend as she wished, Anne wanted her to know that she would be willing to pay for whatever comforts she needed and wanted, especially as it might be a while before Henry could see his way clear to making proper provision for his child.

"I'll let you know." Mary promised, looking around the room. When she left Ludlow Castle, she had had to leave most of her belongings behind, on her father's orders, as he had decreed that all that she needed would be provided for her at Hatfield, and that as accommodation was being readier for her, there was no need for her to bring any furniture or hangings with her. She certainly wouldn't have been able to fit much into the small, bleak chamber she was assigned when she was sent to wait on Elizabeth! However, now that she had her own apartment, she wondered if she would be allowed to send to Ludlow for some of her favourite pieces of furniture, along with hangings and ornaments, so that she could furnish and decorate the room as she liked.

Her father might take umbrage at the suggestion, thinking that she should not be asking to be provided with the kind of comforts she had enjoyed as a princess and that she should not be asking to be granted the use of items belonging to the traditional residence of the heir to the throne, but if she asked Anne, Anne was likely to be able to arrange it... Mary frowned, troubled by her own train of thought and by the idea that she had a better chance of her wishes being granted if she asked Anne than if she asked her father but she recovered quickly, covering her frown with a pleasant smile and hoping that Anne had not noticed the change in her expression.

If she had, she did not remark on it but her next words startled Mary, making her wonder if there was any truth to the rumours she had heard on occasion, that Anne was a witch.

"If there is anything that you would like from your former residences, make a list and I will have somebody sent there to fetch them for you." Anne told her, as though she had read her mind. She acknowledged Mary's thanks with a smile before continuing. "I also have some good news for you, Mary; the King has decided that he will receive you, formally, in his presence chamber this afternoon." Henry might have resolved that he would not see Mary until she had taken the Oath, as he demanded, but now that she had taken it, he had declared that he was willing to receive her – as though it was a great concession on the part of a father to be willing to see his own child!

What would it have been like for Elizabeth, if her mother was executed, especially since Henry was rumoured to have wanted to banish their child from court and from his sight after her arrest, Anne wondered as she watched Mary's reaction to the news. She couldn't imagine that Jane Seymour would have advocated that Henry should welcome Elizabeth back to court, certainly not before she had convinced him to welcome Mary back and secured her place in Henry's affections, so Elizabeth might have spent years exiled from the court and from her father, left to be brought up in obscurity as the King's bastard – if Henry was even willing to continue to acknowledge her as his – until she could be married off to some minor noble and forgotten.

In her dealings with Mary, present and future, she could never allow herself to forget how easily Elizabeth might have been in her sister's shoes, as the exiled royal daughter.

"I am glad, Your Majesty." Mary said quietly, shutting her eyes for a moment to keep the tears from flowing. She would never forget the hurt of hearing her father's message that he was unwilling to receive her and that, until she took the Oath, he was not willing to regard her as any daughter of his, preferring to leave her as nothing more than a servant in her sister's household. Now, for the price of a signature, he was not only willing to receive her, he would do so before the court, to signal to them that she was in favour with him once more... and to show them that she had submitted, Mary added silently, knowing that her father might have another motive, other than to simply show that he was welcoming her back to the bosom of his family.

When she was received in his presence chamber this evening, she would be received as the Lady Mary, as a bastard – a bastard honoured for her royal blood, yes, but a bastard nonetheless – and she would be seen to accept her reduced status, as though she knew that she had no rightful claim on any higher status or more exalted treatment. She would be showing them that she had surrendered; she was not going to continue to fight for her dues as a princess and because she would not, nobody else was going to pledge himself to her cause.

She determinedly banished that thought from her mind, determined to focus her mind on the blessings of the situation rather than on the drawbacks.

Now that her father was willing to receive her, now that he was willing to show her the affection he surely felt towards her, she would be safe and, in time, perhaps she would even come to be happy in her new situation, able to be content with the affection of her father, and the love of her little sister and the comforts of her place as Lady Mary, without regretting what she had lost.

She was listening with only half an ear to what Anne had to say, nodding absently from time to time as the details of her new situation were explained to her but not really taking much of it in. Even after she was assured that, after Anne and Elizabeth, she was henceforth to rank as the third lady at court, as the King's daughter, taking precedence over duchesses, it took several moments for it to register with her, allowing her to belatedly express her pleasure at this.

It wasn't until Anne stopped speaking for a minute that she was jolted from her reverie by the silence.

Anne hesitated before continuing, reluctant to bring up a delicate issue but thinking that it was unavoidable. "For this afternoon... I've given orders for my seamstresses to have you measured, and they'll bring cloth so that you can take your pick for new gowns but they'd never have anything ready for you by this afternoon, I'm afraid. I don't believe you've brought many gowns with you to court," she phrased it diplomatically, not wanting to embarrass Mary by forcing the young girl to admit that her wardrobe was so neglected – and had she not thought to question Lady Bryan on the matter, Anne would not have known how bad the situation was, that her stepdaughter had nothing suitable to wear for her audience with Henry.

"I don't have many gowns, Your Majesty." Mary said bluntly, her head held high.

"We'll take care of that as soon as possible." Anne promised. "In the meantime, for this evening, if you would like to select one of my gowns, it shouldn't take more than a couple of hours to have it altered to fit you." She offered. She and Mary were not far apart in height, and they were both slim, so she didn't doubt that a clever seamstress would be able to alter one of her gowns for Mary, with time to spare, but she didn't know whether Mary would be glad of her offer, given that she would have to appear before the court this afternoon, or if she would take it as an insult and feel offended that she should be offered Anne's cast-offs.

Mary nodded, the practical need to appear before the court dressed in a manner befitting her rank rather than looking as a poor relation winning out against her pride, which balked at the thought of accepting something like this from Anne, something so personal. She had accepted the furs her mother bequeathed her, and would wear them with pride, worn as they were, but even though she suspected that any gown of Anne's would be barely worn, given how many new gowns she ordered, she disliked the idea of sharing clothes with her.

However, as it was for just one day, she could bear it, thanking Anne as graciously as she could manage, and wondering if, five years ago, she would ever have been able to believe that the Princess of Wales would be in a position where she had to accept the charity of Lady Anne Boleyn if she wished to be able to appear before the court in a manner befitting her royal blood.

If she was not living it, she would never believe that her life could come to this.

* * *

When Anne had suggested that she should wear one of her gowns for her audience with her father, Mary had initially suspected that she would be offered a selection of Anne's older, simpler gowns to choose from but she was pleasantly surprised when Anne made her whole wardrobe available to her, insisting that she should select whichever gown she liked best, and also when her stepmother remained on hand to offer her careful advice on which colours and styles would be best suited to her.

In the end, Mary had chosen a deep red gown, made of heavily embroidered satin, and Anne had given her a ruby necklace to wear with it, and a matching clasp to secure her long, brown hair, telling her that she could keep them. Mary didn't recognize either item as belonging to the collection of official jewels of the Queens of England, jewels that she had played with as a small child, and even tried on when her mother permitted it, and she was very glad of that. Despite her awareness of how important it was to cultivate a friendly relationship with Anne, for her own sake, she would have found it very difficult to thank her for gifting her with jewels that should have been her mother's property by rights.

One of Anne's ladies-in-waiting, Nan Saville, had dressed her hair and her two maids had helped to lace her into the gown, which the seamstress had altered for her. When Mary caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror, she saw a King's daughter looking back at her rather than a maidservant and that gave her the confidence to walk downstairs with her head held high, descending amongst the courtiers for the first time since her arrival, courtiers who would almost certainly be speculating avidly about why she had finally decided to take the Oath, after fighting against it for so long, and about the reception that the King was likely to accord her.

Although she was certain that many of them would be glad to see her welcomed back, she knew that there would still be some, those who cleaved to Anne, to the new religion or to both, who would be wary about her restoration, afraid of the prospect of her father favouring her once more, despite the terms on which she was being received.

A hush fell over the knot of courtiers gathering outside her father's chamber, waiting for audiences with him, as she approached and she was pleased and gratified to see the lords and gentlemen sweep deep bows to her as soon as they saw her, while the ladies present curtsied to her, all of them backing out of the way to clear a path for her, so that she might approach unhindered. Even if some of them had been waiting there for hours, perhaps since early in the morning, they were obliged to step back so that she might enter for her audience first, as befitted on with royal blood.

It was comforting to see their deep obeisances, and the deference of their manner towards her. She had not been treated like this since the terrible day when the Earl of Wiltshire came to Ludlow Castle to coldly inform her that her father's marriage to her mother had been declared invalid and that she, who had been Princess of Wales, was demoted to plain Lady Mary.

She caught the eye of the Duke of Suffolk as she passed him by, and she could see that he and his wife were both pleased to see her going to be received by her father, though there was a hint of wariness in the duke's eyes as she looked at him. he had asked her to take the Oath a matter of hours before Anne broached the matter with her and, as she had refused to do so, in no uncertain terms, he must be wondering what had brought about her change of heart.

She didn't see Chapuys but, in a way, it was a relief to know that her cousin's ambassador and her mother's friend and supporter would not witness this moment, the moment when she publicly accepted her illegitimate status.

For years, Chapuys had done everything in his power to prevent this day from coming, defending her mother against the disgrace of being set aside after so many years of marriage, to be replaced by her own lady-in-waiting, when her father sought to petition the pope for an annulment, doing everything in his power to guard her against the ill-treatment that was meted out to her when the King grew tired of waiting and set his wife aside, without waiting for the pope's permission, and then transferring his loyalty to Mary when her mother died and doing his best to bring about her restoration to her former position, until it became clear to him that it would be impossible.

Mary wouldn't have wanted for him to be here for her first formal audience as the King's bastard.

At the threshold of the presence chamber, a liveried chamberlain struck his staff against the floor, to alert those within of her approach, even though they must be expecting her. She could imagine how eagerly they must have been waiting to hear the call, her father inwardly debating over how he should greet her and the few courtiers who were to be privileged to witness her return waiting to see from the King's expression how he felt about his daughter's return.

"The Lady Mary!" The cry rang out, clear and carrying.

Since she could toddle, her nurses and governess had coached her in the protocol for an audience with the King, even though that protocol was rarely strictly adhered to when she was a child, as most of her visits with her father were informal, and she knew exactly how she ought to behave, even after being cut off from the court and from her father's presence for so many years, years during which she would have given almost anything to be allowed to speak alone with him for five minutes, so that she could have a chance to show him the error of his ways and persuade him that he should send Anne away and bring her and her mother back to court, where they belonged.

It was too late for that now.

As soon as she crossed the threshold, she swept a deep curtsey, keeping her head bowed. She held that pose for a few moments then rose, walking around a dozen paces before curtseying a second time, as deeply as she had the first time, though she ventured to glance upwards for a brief instant, noting that there were three thrones of the dais, with her father in the middle throne, the largest, Anne on one side and Elizabeth on the other, her short legs swinging slightly and a wide smile on her face as she watched Mary approach.

Rising from her second curtsey, she finished her short walk to the foot of the dais and knelt directly in front of her father, her head bowed low, speaking the words she had rehearsed in her mind, over and over, when she had imagined what their first meeting in so long would be like. "I am Your Majesty's most humble and obedient daughter and subject."

In her happier fantasies, her father would raise her before she had finished speaking, folding her into his embrace as though he never wanted to let her go, apologizing for all that he had put her and her mother through over the past years and promising that he loved her, that he had always loved her and that he would make everything right for her once more, that she would never again have to be in any way unhappy or fearful. He would see to that. When he finished speaking, he would put his arm around her shoulder and turn her to face the courtiers, presenting her to them as his beloved daughter, the pearl of his world.

In her nightmares, he would turn away from her, refusing to listen to a word that she had to say or to respond to her greeting, much less to offer her any sign of his affection, and his eyes would be as hard as rock and as cold as ice as he gave orders that she was to be removed from his presence at once, as he could not bear the sight of her. As she was led away, the meaty fingers of his sentries digging into the tender flesh of her upper arms, the courtiers would laugh at her, their eyes bright with malicious delight, jeering at her not only for being publicly rejected by her father but for being so foolish as to ever have expected that he would ever receive her kindly.

If he snubbed her this time, Mary thought that her heart would break.

Her father rose from his throne, reaching out a hand to help her to her feet and, when she was standing, he smiled at her, his tone warm as he greeted her. "Daughter."

It was only one word but, when Mary heard her father speak it, she felt as though she might weep with relief and joy to know that he was not going to reject her, that although she had feared for her life, afraid that the father she had so adored as a child would be willing to send her to her death, she would not need to worry about that now. She was back at court, back in the King's favour and she was safe. Her father cared for her and, now that she had done as he commanded and satisfied him that she was obedient and loyal, he would show it.

Henry bent down to kiss her on both cheeks, a gesture that was both ceremonious and affectionate, and then he held her at arm's length, surveying his daughter at close quarters for the first time in years, since she was a little girl, the pretty little daughter that he had taken such pride in, cherishing her tenderly because, for so long, she was the only living child he had left.

"You've grown, my Lady Mary." He remarked lightly, her title sounding like an endearment from his lips. His smile was proud as he looked at her, a young woman now rather than a child, but his pride and joy in the sight of Mary was tinged with bitterness and anger towards Katherine as he told himself that, but for her stubbornness and her refusal to admit that they were never truly man and wife, he and Mary would not have been strangers for so long. But Katherine was gone now, and their daughter was back with him now, having seen the truth that her mother could never acknowledge. It was true the Mary had been obstinate but he could forgive her for that, as it must have been painful for her to be faced with the knowledge that she was no princess, as she had been led to believe, but a bastard. "You've grown into a beauty." He assured her, smiling to see her faint blush at the compliment. He kissed her cheek once more, and then he took her by the hand so that he might present her formally to Anne and to Elizabeth.

Mary swept deep curtseys to them both as she was presented to them in turn, murmuring a greeting, and Henry smiled to hear her swear her fealty to Anne as her Queen, and to see her pay little Elizabeth her dues as Princess, glad that he had decided to receive Mary formally, so that his court could not only see that his daughter was to be welcomed back into the family, they could witness her free and open acceptance of the true situation for themselves, in case any of them made the mistake of believing that he had forced Mary to take the Oath.

He wanted his daughter back in his life but he also wanted her to be loyal, and he knew that he would have to be vigilant where Mary was concerned, at least for the time being. Now that his daughter had seen sense at last, he would have to make sure that nobody was able to lead her astray and make her rethink her submission, and recant it.

He would not have his hard-won family peace shattered by a senseless fool who would insist to Mary that she was the true princess.

Elizabeth, too young to respect the solemn formality of the occasion, leapt down from her throne and ran to her father's side, reaching out to tug at his doublet. Once she had his attention, she held her arms up to him. "Lift me up, Papa!" She commanded, giggling in delight as he obeyed her command, sweeping her up into his arms and tossing her in the air briefly before settling her in his arms. From his arms, her face was level with Mary's and she reached out to hug her sister, leaning close to her ear and speaking in a loud whisper, audible to most of those present. "That's a much nicer gown than your black one."

Henry laughed, setting Elizabeth down in front of him and turning towards Anne, reaching out a hand to her to tug her closer to him, and to his daughters, aware of the approving murmurs from many of the courtiers present, who were plainly pleased to see that the royal family was whole now, as it ought to have been a long time ago, and that Mary was welcomed into the family circle as the King's daughter should be. He looked down into his elder daughter's face, glad to have her back in his life again. Although he would not have admitted it, not even to Anne, he had missed Mary during their years of estrangement.

Had it not been for the fact that he could not afford to send mixed messages to Mary, Katherine and his own people by welcoming his daughter back into his life before she accepted the way things were, he would have liked to be able to bring her to court long ago.

Now Mary was back and, as Anne had advocated, she would be honoured as one of the highest ladies at court, second only to his wife and to his legitimate daughter. He would show her that, even if she was illegitimate, she was his child and he would see to it that she was honoured and that she would never again be allowed to want for anything. Every courtier would know that the King's daughter was to be treated with all respect and honour, as the child of so mighty a Prince as he should be treated, or they would answer to him for any rudeness.

He bent down so that he could speak to Mary in a hushed whisper, slipping his free arm around her shoulders and drawing her closer to him. "You don't need to be afraid of anything, Mary, not ever again." He told her softly, wanting to reassure her that a loyal and loving daughter would never have anything to fear from him. "You are part of our family now."

Mary leaned into his embrace, smiling up at him.

Even if she was never restored to her former position, at least she would have her father's love.

* * *

When the Brandons heard that Mary had taken the Oath, Catherine's first impulse was to feel relieved for her husband's sake. She knew that he had not liked the idea of being obliged to put pressure on Mary to take the Oath, essentially declaring that she was a bastard and that her mother was not her father's wife, but the King had commanded that Mary was to be convinced to take the Oath and he expected Brandon to be the one to convince her, as part of his punishment for his disagreement with Anne, so she had feared that if Mary refused, her husband would be the one to pay the price for it.

If he had failed, the King would, in all likelihood, have assumed that his failure was deliberate, clear evidence that, despite the fact that Charles had voted in favour of the Act of Succession when it first passed, he did not truly recognize Anne as Queen or Elizabeth as Princess, an act of treason punishable by death. Even if the King did not wish to send his long-time friend and former brother-in-law to the block, he would still have exacted a stiff punishment for Charles' failure to persuade Mary, a punishment that Catherine was only too happy to have her husband escape.

Charles was already unhappy to be out of favour with his friend, especially for Anne's sake, without making matters any worse for him.

However, once her initial relief faded, it was replaced by concern for Mary.

The rumour that Anne was the one who finally succeeded in persuading Mary to take the Oath had been confirmed by no less a person than the King himself, who had coldly informed Brandon that he owed Anne a debt of gratitude for managing to persuade Mary of her duty to Henry as her father and her sovereign, sparing him the task and the punishment that would have followed if he had failed, and it caused Catherine considerable worry when she learned of this. She knew how strong-willed Mary was, how loyal to her mother she was and how determined she had been not to take the Oath, so she worried about what it was that Anne could have said to her that would prompt Mary to give in, after fighting against doing so for so long.

Of all the people at court, she would have said that Anne was the one _least_ likely to be able to exert a modicum of influence over Mary, especially where the matter of the King's marriage to Queen Katherine and Mary's own legitimacy was concerned, as only a fool would be unable to recognize that it was to Anne's advantage, and her child's, that Mary should take the Oath.

What kind of threats had Anne made that were powerful enough to prompt Mary to abandon her mother's cause and to acknowledge the woman who had torn her family apart as the rightful Queen of England, as well as to call herself a bastard and her young half-sister the true princess?

Had her husband been the one who had succeeded in persuading Mary to take the Oath, Catherine could have been confident that Charles would never have tried to be cruel to the young girl.

She knew that, before their marriage, he had allied himself with the Boleyns but she, as the daughter of a woman who had come from Spain with the then-Infanta Catalina, when she came to be married to Prince Arthur all those years ago, knew Queen Katherine well and she was able to help her husband see how cruel it was that such a good, kind and virtuous woman should be set aside, after so many years of being a loving and loyal wife to the King and a good Queen for England, just because the King had taken a fancy to an ambitious girl who held out for marriage.

Because of his friendship with the King and his need to keep in his good graces, Charles had been obliged to do many things that he did not like since Henry cast aside Katherine and raised Anne in her place but Catherine was confident that, while he might have once helped her to rise, he now wanted nothing more than to see Anne fall, and to see Mary restored to favour.

He would never have tried to exert pressure on Mary to take the Oath for his sake, to spare him the King's anger. He would only have pressed her to it because he believed that her safety depended on it, as it undoubtedly did. Charles would have told her the truth about the advantages of signing and about the danger she faced if she refused but he would never have exaggerated either the danger or the rewards she would reap for her submission, much less made cruel threats about what would happen if she refused, not even if it was to his benefit that Mary took the Oath.

Catherine didn't think that she could say the same about Anne.

Of all people in England, Anne had the most cause to wish to see Mary take the Oath, knowing that if she did, it would not only support her own position as Queen but remove Mary as a rival for her little Elizabeth as the next heir to the throne. How far might she have been prepared to go to see to it that Mary swore, before there could be any risk that the King might change his mind about forcing his daughter into submission?

Whatever else might be said about her, Anne was intelligent. If there was a chance that the King might be ready to soften towards his daughter and to welcome her back into his life without demanding that she should repudiate her mother before he did so, Anne was likely to be the first to see the signs of that, and the first to want to prevent it, by any means necessary.

When Mary was still in service in Elizabeth's household, Catherine was not able to visit her.

Nobody was allowed to see her unless they could obtain permission to do so from the King or the Queen and even asking permission could bring suspicion on one's head, as they would want to know why anybody would wish to see the King's disinherited, bastardised daughter and would harbour suspicions towards anybody who seemed to be cultivating Mary's friendship, wondering why they would think that it would ever be of benefit for them to be favoured by Lady Mary.

Catherine would have liked to pay Mary a visit before today, or at least to send her a letter of friendship and support, to let her know that no matter how bleak things might seem for her, she still had people who wished her well and who would do everything within their power to help her, but she had known that that was not possible as long as Elizabeth's governess was watching Mary with an eagle eye, observing her interactions carefully so that she could report any suspicious activity to the King and Queen, so that they might deal with the matter themselves.

Lady Bryan had been engaged as a governess to Elizabeth but she also acted as a jailer to Mary.

Her loyalty lay with Anne and she would never be persuaded to allow anybody to visit Mary without permission, no matter who they were or how hard they tried to coax her into relaxing her vigilance, and no message would ever be able to make it past her eagle eye, especially as the other girls who served in Elizabeth's household would be ready to side with Lady Bryan and ensure that Mary had no opportunity to engage in secret correspondence that might compromise their little mistress or her mother.

Now that Mary had her own apartment, however, it was much simpler for Catherine to be able to see her; all she had had to do was to send a note to Mary, delivered by one of her maidservants, asking for permission to call on her in the afternoon, and Mary had sent her own maid back with a message to let her know that she would be pleased to receive her. There was no need to go to the King or to Anne to beg their permission to see Mary, and there would be no Lady Bryan standing guard, listening to every word they said so that she could give Anne a full account of the meeting.

Mary's new apartment was a pleasant one, something that Catherine was pleased to see.

She had heard from Charles of the shabby way that Queen Katherine was treated during her exile at the More, when she was only provided with an allowance that could just about be stretched to cover her basic needs when she declared her intention to go out begging alms if the King could not support her – a bluff that the King had not dared to call, fearing the likely reaction of his people if they should learn that, although he had ample funds to lavish on Anne's wardrobe and the jewels he was showering her with, not to mention on the splendid coronation he had planned for her and the opulent nursery being readied for the coming child, he was unwilling to support the woman they had called their Queen for so long – and she had also heard reports of Mary's accommodation at Hatfield, when she was housed in a room that was the worst in the house, according to Ambassador Chapuys, who had been indignant at the way Mary was treated, and rightly so.

Over the past few years, Catherine would have given a lot to be able to go to the King and to tell him plainly what she thought of him for treating Katherine and Mary as he did, without risking losing her head for her bluntness. Her mother had told her that, when the King was young, he had prided himself on being a true knight but his behaviour towards the two innocent women had lacked all chivalry. A true knight would have died before he treated blameless ladies thus.

At least now Mary was decently housed, which was no more than her right.

As soon as she was announced, Catherine swept a deep curtsey to Mary, feeling a thrill of satisfaction to be able to do this without having to worry that she would be accused of disloyalty for it, suspected of not truly believing that Elizabeth was the true, legitimate princess, as she had sworn she did when she was called upon to take the Oath. The King himself had commanded that his elder daughter was to be the third lady at court, after Anne and Elizabeth, and that she was to be treated with the honours due to a King's daughter by even the highest-ranking nobles of the court, people who would previously have been able to ignore Mary without any fear of reprisals from her royal father for their disrespect. Catherine was glad to be able to accord Mary the respect she deserved, respect that had been withheld for far too long.

"My Lady Mary." She could not address her as 'Princess', especially when Mary had taken the Oath and her sincerity would be questioned if she was found to have allowed anybody to call her that without reminding them that she was illegitimate and had no right to be addressed thus but she still infused the same respect in her tone that she would have accorded to Mary, had she been allowed to bear the title, respect that was no more than the young girl's due, and she hoped that Mary was able to understand her meaning, and to derive comfort from her support.

Catherine wanted her to know that she was not alone.

"Lady Suffolk." Mary smiled at her, moving to raise her from her curtsey. "Welcome."

"Thank you for receiving me, my lady."

Catherine waited until they were sitting down in chairs before the fire, and two of Mary's attendants had served them spiced wine and sweet cakes and withdrawn from the room, leaving them alone, before she spoke. "I was so happy to see that His Majesty has welcomed you back to court, my Lady Mary," she told her warmly, "and that you have left your former position in your sister's household." She didn't like to refer to Elizabeth as Princess, particularly in front of Mary so, as she could not dare to refer to the child as 'Lady', she satisfied herself with a neutral term.

"Thank you, Lady Suffolk." Mary responded quietly, looking across at the other woman with a faint smile. "I know that you and my Lord of Suffolk wish me well, and I am grateful for it."

Catherine's heart ached with sympathy. Had Mary been younger, or had she been the daughter of anybody but the King, she felt as though she would want to take her in her arms to console her, as she had consoled Edward when he was small, before he began to cherish a boyish scorn for her embraces, offering her sympathies for the death of Queen Katherine, for the way that the King had set Mary aside, and for the fact that she had had to take the Oath before her father was willing to allow her to come into his presence, but she knew that she could not do this.

All she could do was confront the issue, head on. "I understand from my husband that it was Queen Anne who spoke with you about the matter of the Oath of Succession, and who persuaded you that you should take it." She remarked gently, noticing that Mary stiffened slightly at her words – though whether that was because Catherine had applied the title of Queen to Anne or because the reference to her submission upset her, Catherine could not say.

"That is true, my lady." Mary agreed truthfully, doing her best to keep her face neutral. Coming from somebody else, she might have taken this as gloating, exulting over the fact that she had been brow-beaten into submission at last – in fact, she was rather surprised that the Earl of Wiltshire had not yet sought an audience with her so that he could 'congratulate' her on her restoration to her father's favour, his honeyed compliments over the good sense she had shown in swearing, as her father commanded of her, concealing his spiteful glee over the fact that she had given in at last – but she knew that Catherine was well-disposed towards her.

The concern in Catherine's eyes was unmistakeable and Mary was both touched and pained by it, in roughly equal measure. She did not know Catherine well but she knew that their mothers had been friends and could guess that, for the sake of that, Catherine would wish her well and that she would have spent the past few years hoping that the King would change his mind and restore Mary. It was people like Catherine that she had let down when she took the Oath, people who were loyal to her but who saw that she did not hold to her own cause as steadfastly as they did, that when threatened and alone, she gave in, and pretended for the sake of restoration.

Were they disappointed in her, or did they understand that she had had no choice?

"My Lady Mary," Catherine's voice was tentative, knowing that she was broaching a delicate subject and wanting Mary to know that, however she might feel she needed to behave around other people, whatever she might feel that she needed to say around them, so that they would not be suspicious of her, she didn't need to pretend for her sake. If Anne had threatened Mary to get her to take the Oath, then Catherine hoped that Mary knew that she could be open with her about it. She didn't need to keep silent out of pride, much less out of fear that Catherine might betray her confidences to unfriendly ears. That was something Catherine would never do. "If I may, I _was_ surprised when I heard that you had taken the Oath. If you'll forgive me, my lady, it is well known that you were asked to take it before, and that you refused."

"Things were different then." Mary said, her simple statement covering so many things.

Before, her mother was alive and, even if they were not allowed to be together, forced apart on her father's orders, it still gave Mary comfort and strength to know that her mother was out there, fighting for both their rights and refusing to give in, no matter what. Before, rumours were trickled to her that Anne's position was precarious, especially as she had failed to give the King the son he wanted from her, and that if the King sought to set her aside, he would have little alternative but to accept that his marriage to Mary's mother was valid and restore them to their rightful positions. Before, she was young and she still had faith that, no matter what happened, her father's love for her was so strong that he would protect her from harm, even if she defied him.

She no longer had that faith.

"My lady, when she spoke to you," Catherine didn't refer to Anne by her name or by her title as Queen. She and Mary both knew who she was speaking of, "did she say anything to you that made you feel as though you had no choice but to take the Oath? Did she suggest that the King was..." She trailed off, unwilling to voice the idea that the King might have signed his daughter's death warrant, an idea she found horrendous.

Mary understood what Catherine was trying to say to her, understood that the other woman suspected that the only reason she had yielded and agreed to take the Oath was that Anne had threatened her with death if she did not, stripping away any hope that Mary might have clung to that she would be spared the ordeal of having to declare that her mother was never married and having to call herself a bastard. She suspected that Catherine would not be the only one to wonder how it was that Anne, of all people, was able to persuade her to yield when others, including people who were more warmly disposed towards her, had tried to do so and failed.

It would have been easy to imply that Anne had been cruel, and threatened her, that she had bullied her into submission and that, but for this, she would never have consented to take the Oath but Mary didn't want to do this. She couldn't help but feel that she would be doing Anne an injustice if she did. While it was true that Anne had encouraged her to take the Oath, and while Anne had expressed her fears about what might happen to Mary if she declined to take the Oath, Mary's instincts were telling her that Anne had not spoken as she had merely to frighten her into complying, she had been genuinely concerned about what might happen to Mary if she refused, and Mary wasn't comfortable pretending that Anne's motives had been cruel ones.

"The Queen told me the truth, Lady Suffolk." She said quietly. "That's all."

She had made her choice, she had chosen to take the Oath and she was going to have to live with that. No matter how tempting it might be, she wasn't going to blame Anne for her choices.

* * *

**_15th July 1536_ **

Mary had heard before that Anne had a keen interest in fashion and that she spent a prodigious amount on clothes, far more than most women, even Queens, would ever consider spending, and that she always made sure that everything she wore was of the very best quality.

Now she was seeing proof of that for herself.

When Nan Saville brought her Anne's invitation in the morning, just after breakfast, relaying her stepmother's request that she join her in her apartments so that she could be measured for the gowns she would need for their journey to France, Mary had agreed only because she knew that it was far better for her to cultivate Anne's good will as much as possible and that she should take care not to offend her, whether over small matters like this morning's fittings, or larger ones.

She had not found the idea of joining Anne for a morning spent discussing gowns for the trip, especially as she considered the idea of travelling to France, where she had once gone in state as a princess to be betrothed to the Dauphin, as the King of England's illegitimate daughter to be far from appealing but, to her surprise, she found that she was enjoying herself.

Her passion for beautiful gowns and jewels might never rival Anne's but Mary still enjoyed fine clothes and ornaments, and she enjoyed the time she spent in Anne's apartment, looking over the seemingly countless bolts of rich fabric strewn on tables and over the backs of chairs and couches, and speaking with Anne's seamstresses, who seemed to be the most skilled in the country, about the kind of styles that would become her figure. When she went to France, she would go there in style, as Anne and Elizabeth would, dressed in silk, satin, damask and velvet, adorned with jewels.

The only difference between her state now and the state that she had enjoyed as Princess of Wales was that she was no longer entitled to wear purple, the colour for the exclusive use of royalty and that was now reserved for her father, Anne and Elizabeth.

Elizabeth was plainly delighted with the excitement of preparing for the trip and, unlike most children her age, she did not fuss or fidget while the seamstresses measured her – though why they needed to do that, given that it was only a matter of days since she was last measured for new gowns, Mary did not know. Instead, she chatted happily with them, pointing out her favourite fabrics and quizzing them about the designs planned for her gowns, about which she had decided opinions.

"I want a gown like Mama's, please." She announced, pointing at the half-finished sapphire blue gown that was set up on a wooden model. Elizabeth loved wearing gowns that were like the ones her Mama wore. Not only did it make her feel very grown-up, she liked the people who saw them together to know that she was her mother's daughter, even though their colouring was different.

The seamstress measuring Elizabeth paused for a moment, glancing back towards Anne and waiting for her to nod confirmation before she answered. "As you wish, my Lady Princess." She told Elizabeth, smiling indulgently at the small girl's delight. "You will look very fine in it, I'm sure, such a lovely girl you are." She assured her, thinking that it was not only an honour, and a very profitable business to be patronised by the Queen and the Princess where their gowns were concerned, it was also a pleasure to dress such a beautiful woman, and her enchanting little girl.

Whatever else might be said about Queen Anne, she would be a beauty even if you dressed her in sackcloth, and she suspected that when the princess was older, the same would be true of her.

"The Lady Mary will need new gowns as well, won't she, Mama?" Elizabeth asked, not wanting Mary to be left out. It was fun to have a sister she could play with and who could dress up in fine gowns and jewels like her, much more fun than it was to have a sister who was only a maid and who had to work so hard that she didn't have much time for playing. "If she's going to come to France, she has to look nice – we all do, so that the King of France can't say that the French ladies are prettier than us." She informed the seamstress blithely, not noticing her mother's faint blush at her calm announcement of the rivalry between the English and French courts, rivalry that was likely to become apparent when the royal party travelled to Paris as King Francis' guests.

The rivalry might not be as pronounced as it was at the Field of the Cloth of Gold when, for all their show of friendliness, both kings were determined to outdo the other, but Anne was certain, and so were most of the court, the Henry would still want to travel to France in style, every aspect of his court able to rival Francis', just as Francis would be determined to make every effort to ensure that his hospitality would be splendid, and that Henry would be impressed by his palace and by his court, even if he was too stubborn to admit it.

Anne covered his discomfort over Elizabeth's remark by turning her attention to the issue of Mary's wardrobe. "Lady Mary will certainly need new gowns for her visit – and we'll have to see about your household as well, Mary." She added. "Is there anything you can think of that you'll need for your attendants?" She asked. "If there is, I can make arrangements."

"Thank you, Your Majesty." Mary responded, and her answering smile was a genuine one. Anne had promised that she would be taken care of once she took the Oath, and she had certainly kept her word. Although Mary had initially had just two maids of honour in her service, her household had already swelled and now included eight people, including her own trainbearer and two gentlemen servers who, though they wore the King's livery, and were technically considered to be in his service, were assigned to wait on her, serving her at mealtimes, when she chose to eat in the privacy of her own apartment, and standing guard outside her door, ready to announce the visitors she wished to admit, and to usher the guest she didn't wish to see away.

She couldn't pretend that her father was the one to whom she owed a debt of gratitude for seeing to it that she would have a retinue of servants befitting her status as the King's daughter, not when Anne was the one who had worked to select suitable attendants for her, making provision for their accommodation, food and wages. Mary's father might have opted to abdicate the matter of her household into Anne's hands but at least Mary had not lost out by it. She might not have a princess' establishment but she was well-attended and honourably treated and glad of that.

"I think that you would look lovely in this, Mary." Anne suggested, lifting a bolt of forest-green damask from the table and holding it close to Mary's face, scrutinizing the colour against her skin tone. "And emeralds, I think," she mused aloud, already able to picture the gown in her mind's eye, and to imagine the kind of jewels that would go well with the cloth and with Mary's features and colouring. "Master Holbein designed an emerald necklace for me not long ago, you can have that." She finished quietly, her enthusiasm suddenly dampened. Her smile was a sad one as she thought of the necklace, one that Henry had ordered for her when she told him of her pregnancy. A token of his affection, he had called it... an empty token, as he was even then making plans to bring Jane Seymour to court, convincing himself that he was in love with the wench and so enraptured by her that even Anne's pregnancy had not had the power to hold his attention, much less his love.

What kind of jewels had he ordered for Mistress Seymour, planning to shower her with them if she responded to his overtures?

Henry had had Master Holbein design earrings, bracelets and even a coronet to match the necklace, promising that they would be hers as soon as she bore him a son.

By the time the necklace was finished, Anne had miscarried her son, the baby boy who had represented her great hope for the future, a future where she and Elizabeth would be secure and where she would be able to win Henry's love back once more and be secure in the knowledge that she was his wife, the first in his heart, and that she did not have to worry about Jane Seymour or any of the other pretty, simpering ladies of the court, all of whom watched Anne avidly, waiting for a sign that she would fall so that they might have the opportunity to snatch up her vacant place.

The necklace was only delivered to her after she was released from the Tower, but she had not even looked at it before shoving it into the back corner of her jewellery box, not wanting to be reminded of the reason why it had been commissioned, or of the man who gave it to her.

Perhaps it would bring Mary some joy.

Mary was thanking Anne, both for the gown and for the promise of the necklace, when the door was rapped sharply before it was opened, without even waiting for Anne to call out permission.

When Henry strode into the room, almost all of the ladies present made deep curtsies, even little Elizabeth, who beamed at the sight of him. Anne did not curtsey but she greeted him with a nod.

"Your Majesty." Her voice was calm as she greeted him but there was an unmistakable note of coldness to it, one that everybody from Henry to the seamstresses to Elizabeth could pick up on. Seeing the worried expression on Elizabeth's face, Anne gave her daughter a reassuring smile but she couldn't bring herself to speak to Henry in a more welcoming manner, not when her dead baby and his affair with Mistress Seymour were occupying her thoughts, reminding her – as if she needed reminding! – of everything that he had done to her.

Henry would have liked to move to Anne's side to greet her with a kiss but he knew better, so he greeted his daughters instead, swinging Elizabeth into his arms and giving her a loving kiss on the cheek before he raised Mary and bent down a little to kiss her in her turn. "How are my girls?" He asked them jovially, bouncing Elizabeth in his arms to make her giggle and noting that Mary was looking happier and brighter than she was the last time he had seen her. he was happy to see that, especially as he was aware that Mary was not strong and that, if she was unhappy, her health was likely to suffer for it.

"Well, Papa." Elizabeth piped up.

"I am very well, thank you, Your Majesty." Mary responded with dignity, though she was thrilled to have her father asking after her welfare so warmly, singling her and Elizabeth out for his paternal affection at the same time and on the same terms, as though his love for them both was equal, even if he was calling Mary a bastard and her little sister legitimate.

"We're having new gowns made." Elizabeth informed him, though Henry could see this much from the presence of the seamstresses, and from the cloth strewn over every available surface. "Very pretty ones so that we'll be ready when we're going to France. I'm going to have a blue one like Mama's, and Mary's going to have a green one and a necklace to match." She related happily.

"I'm sure that you'll look very fine in your new gowns, my darling, and that Mama will too." Henry told Elizabeth, setting her down on her feet and patting her fair head. If Anne had heard his compliment about her, she gave no sign of it and he sighed inwardly before returning his attention to the child at his side. "When the Duke of Angouleme sees you, he's going to be very sorry that he can't marry you straight away." He predicted teasingly. "He's not going to want to wait until you're twelve to carry you off."

"He's going to have to wait." Elizabeth said in a no-nonsense fashion, looking as though she had scant sympathy for the impatience of her prospective husband. "I don't want to leave Mama and you and Mary and go away to France forever yet, not for a long time."

"And I don't want to let you go for a long time." Henry assured her, uncomfortably conscious of the fact that, when the time came for the marriage to take place, Elizabeth might not be the one who would be leaving her home country. He certainly was not getting any younger and, if he did not sire a living son on Anne... if Anne did not give him a chance to sire a son on her... then Elizabeth would be his only legitimate heir, and the Duke of Angouleme would have to come to England so that he could marry her, and so that the young couple could go to Ludlow or somewhere like that, to begin to learn how to rule a country together.

"Good." Elizabeth was satisfied with this, and ran to Anne's side, to enquire about whether she was to have a new jewel for the occasion, as Mary was.

"So Queen Anne is having new gowns made for you, my daughter?" Henry asked Mary, turning to look at her. Anne had already made her intention to supply Mary with gowns for the trip to France plain, and Henry certainly had no objection to that. He would not want to have his acknowledged daughter appearing before the King of France and his court looking like a pauper's brat, not when Mary was welcomed back into his family once more, and would be presented to King Francis as a lady to be honoured, despite her illegitimacy.

"Yes, Your Majesty." Mary told him, curtseying again. "Her Majesty has been very kind."

"Has she?" Henry asked, looking towards Anne and thinking that, while she was clearly being very kind to Mary, she was certainly showing no inclination to be kind to him. He was only half-aware pf the fact that his voice became hard as he spoke to Mary. "I hope that you are grateful to the Queen for her kindness towards you, daughter." He told her, the sharpness of his tone attracting Anne's attention and bringing a frown to her face, and a hurt expression to Mary's. "It is very good of you to treat you so well, considering your past intransigence, but I see that you have been forgiven for it." His cold words were meant more for Anne's ears than for his daughter's.

Why could Anne forgive Mary, and treat her so kindly, when she could not forgive him?

Mary had spent years refusing to acknowledge Anne's right to the title of Queen, insisting that she was not his wife and could not be his wife as long as Katherine lived. Mary called Elizabeth a bastard, refusing to accept that she was the rightful princess, and she had even gone so far as to refer to Anne as his mistress to her face, when Anne sought to reach out to her and to welcome her back to court, a kindness that Mary did not deserve after the way she had defied her father and refused to acknowledge the validity of his new marriage.

She might have been young when she denied Anne's title as Queen but Mary had not been so young that she did not understand what she was doing when she denied it, that she could not recognize how deeply she was insulting Anne each time she spoke of her as Henry's mistress, and she had done it anyway. If Mary had had her way, Anne would have been set aside so that Henry could resume his sinful union with Katherine, all so that Mary might once more call herself a princess, and yet Anne seemed to be able to forget that and to welcome Mary to court, showering her with the same rich clothes that she bestowed on their child – their _legitimate_ child – and doing everything she could to make Mary happy, while punishing Henry with cold silence.

Mary had known what she was doing when she denied that Anne was Queen of England, but Henry had truly believed that Anne was guilty of betraying him when he ordered that she was to be arrested and conducted to the Tower so that she could be tried for her alleged crimes and, if found guilty of betraying him, executed for it.

How could he have been expected to know that he was being lied to, that Anne's enemies had sought to use him to bring her down? Even if his love for Jane and his desire to make her his wife meant that he had not examined the evidence against Anne as closely as he should have, he should still have been able to trust that his people would tell him the truth.

Anne was clever, clever enough to realize that if he had died when he took a fall jousting, and if she had not been able to hold the throne for Elizabeth against Mary and her supporters, if Mary had become Queen, she would have sent Anne to the scaffold rather than leave her alive and take the risk that she might try to defend Elizabeth's rights as Queen.

Henry was sure that there must have been times when his elder daughter wished his wife dead, so why could Anne forgive Mary for her past animosity towards her when she couldn't forgive him, the man who loved her for so long and who singled her out, from all of the women in England, to make his Queen?

He had made mistakes, but surely those mistakes were not unforgivable ones.

If Anne could forgive Mary, then she should be able to forgive him, for the sake of their child, for their future together as man and wife and for love they had shared, but she would not.

He was trying, she couldn't deny that.

He wanted to make things right, and for her to be happy and he was trying to give her space and time and to make sure to treat her kindly but she ignored his overtures, resenting him for everything that had happened instead of realizing that they were both lucky that he had learned the truth. He had done the right thing by saving her life, even when Cromwell warned him that if he did not execute Anne, he would be forced to keep her as his wife for the rest of her life, and he wanted for her to acknowledge that and to forgive him for doubting her fidelity.

"My queen." He addressed her directly and Anne had to acknowledge him, turning to look at him. "I will leave you to your preparations." He told her, his tone cool. "I am going hunting." Anne nodded slightly, but she said nothing, nor did she seem to be unhappy or troubled about the fact that he was leaving the palace, when not long ago, she would have been upset about it, convinced that he was slipping away from the palace so that he could be with other women. Now, she didn't seem to care if he did, and it made him angry to see it, angry to see how she had changed and how her feelings towards him had changed. With a frosty bow, he stalked out of the room, feeling furious with her.

He had been patient with Anne for a long time but he had his limits. He had no intention of pandering to Anne's coldness forever, and she needed to learn this. Whatever had happened, he was still the King and none of his subjects, including his wife, should ever assume that they could treat him badly and get away with it.

Anne needed to remember that.

He would not be patient with her much longer.


	17. Chapter 17

**_24th July 1536_ **

"I don't understand how one woman can be so stubborn." Henry lamented as he walked through the gardens with Knivert, enjoying the sunshine and the brief respite from the business of arranging the trip to France, something that required a great deal of work on his part. When Wolsey was still his chancellor, he had made such arrangements look simple but, now that he was without a permanent chancellor, it fell to Henry to supervise the plans for the trip and he found it to be hard work. The fact that he also had to deal with Anne, who was proving to be one of the most obstinate women that God had ever created, just added to his burdens. "I've been patient, I've been kind, I've let her take the time she needs to settle back into the palace and I've let her keep Elizabeth with her and I've done everything I can to show her that she is my Queen and that Elizabeth is my heir but it's not enough for her. I don't know what more she wants from me."

Knivert suspected that what Anne wanted, probably above everything else, was for Henry to apologize to her for what had happened, not to mention for the fact that he had tried to annul their marriage after her arrest, an action that would have relegated their little daughter to the ignoble status of a bastard, but he wisely held his tongue. Although he might sometimes seem heedless, overconfident thanks to the friendship of his sovereign, he was no fool and he knew that he could not tell the King of England that he needed to go to his wife and ask her to forgive him for the way he had wronged her. Even as Henry's friend, he could not say such a thing to him, especially with his temper so uncertain.

He might find himself banished if he suggested that Henry owed his Queen an apology.

Instead, he contented himself with offering his usual advice, hoping that it would calm Henry and that their conversation could move to a more comfortable topic than his marital difficulties. "I'm sure that the Queen just needs some more time, Your Majesty, then things will be better."

"Time!" Henry practically spat the word. "I've given her time – it's been more than two months since I took her out of the Tower and made proclamations that she was innocent and since I brought her back to the palace as my Queen but she's still not herself yet. She's quiet and she's sullen and she barely has a good word for me. She eats her meals in the nursery with Elizabeth, or in her rooms with her family, or with the Lady Mary sometimes, and she barely mingles with the rest of the court. If she wasn't coming to Mass with me, and going out among the people to pass out alms, I'd probably never see her from one end of the week to the next! How much more time can she want?" He demanded of Knivert, as though he expected his friend to be able to name the date on which Anne would be prepared to forget about the unpleasantness during May.

"I don't know, Your Majesty." Knivert answered honestly.

Several of his kinfolk were pressing him to take a wife now, saying that it was past time for him to settle down with a suitable woman of good family, one who would bring him a fat dowry and provide him with a family of fine children, reminding him that, thanks to the friendship of the King, he had amassed a fine estate, one that he needed an heir to pass it on to, but he was in no hurry to alter his bachelor state. His conversations with the King made it plan that marriage could be a trial for a man and he did not find the idea of marrying into more problems appealing in the least.

He was half-afraid that Henry would snap at him for his inability to offer him any more helpful advice than that but, fortunately for him, Henry wasn't even listening to his response.

"She's forgiven other people, you know – her own father wouldn't stand by her when she was arrested and Cromwell's people told him why, he never said a word in her defence; either he thought that she might be guilty or he was afraid that he might go to the block with her if he didn't make sure to denounce her. I'd say that he was more concerned with what he thought would please me than with what happened to Anne. I read the report of his interrogation, and he condemned them all when he was questioned, 'there can be only one punishment', he said. All he was worried about was getting out of the Tower himself. He practically came out and said that we could execute his daughter, and now Anne's as close to him as she ever was, if not more so. She trusts him and she wants to have him around after what he did, but she's blaming me for not standing by her when she was arrested, even though her father abandoned her too."

Knivert only nodded by way of response, not knowing what to say and sensing that, whatever he did say, he was more likely to excite Henry's anger than to soothe his temper.

"And the Lady Mary! You should see the way she is with her, Anthony! She's showering her with gifts, and spends nearly as much on new gowns for her as she does on our Elizabeth. She's insisting that Mary has to have a household of her own, and that the court should honour her as my daughter – not that I don't agree with her about that," he added hastily, in case Knivert thought that he begrudged Mary the honours and privileges that Anne sought for her, and that Anne was being the one who was opening her heart to Mary and doing everything in her power to make her feel welcome at court while he, Mary's father, was neglecting the girl. It wasn't that he resented the idea of Mary being treated kindly – if not for her stubbornness, he would have welcomed her back to his court with all honour years ago – but it rankled to see his daughter forgiven so openly while he was shunned like a leper. "But she's being nothing but kind to Mary, even after the way Mary behaved before. She's called the Queen my mistress to her face, and she's called Princess Elizabeth a bastard, yet _she's_ forgiven!"

"It's good of the Queen to be so kind to the Lady Mary," Knivert said calmingly, not wanting to think that his friend's anger might turn on his elder daughter now, if he was frustrated that she was being forgiven while Anne was still nursing her grievances against him. He didn't think that he could put it past the other man to decide to banish his daughter from court once more, to break up her budding friendship with the Queen out of anger and jealousy. "Perhaps she feels that, as the Lady Mary was just a girl when she learned that she was a bastard instead of a princess, it was to be expected that she would be angry about it, at least before she began to understand the truth, so she can forgive her for being rude before, now that the Lady Mary has accepted the truth and is behaving herself as she ought to."

"It was more than just rudeness, Anthony!" Henry protested, not wanting to admit that Knivert might have a point about Mary's youth making Anne more forgiving of her past offences, since that was an excuse that he could not lay claim to. "Before she came to her senses and recognized Queen Anne, the Lady Mary hated her with a fearsome passion. Master Cromwell was able to intercept some of the letters she tried to send from Hatfield – even though I had forbidden her to write to anybody without being granted permission," he added, his face darkening at the thought of Mary's past defiance, "and she showed her hatred for Anne in every sentence of them. She called her a whore, a heretic, a witch – everything she could think of! If Mary had had the power to order it done, I believe that she would have had Anne burned at the stake. She was even trying to accuse her of poisoning her." He said, his mouth tightening with anger as he remembered his daughter's accusations, accusations that had been relayed to him but that he had given no credence to... not until Anne's words about being unable to conceive a son while Mary lived, and her arrest, when, among other things, it was suggested that she had been plotting Mary's murder in order to safeguard the throne for Elizabeth.

When Cromwell brought the evidence that Anne had betrayed him with all those men, he hadn't been able to uncover any proof that Anne had ever conspired to have Mary poisoned but, with the memory of Anne's words in his mind, Henry had wondered if she had tried and not been detected, telling Brandon that Mary owed God a great debt for preserving her life from Anne's malice.

"Did the Queen know of this?" Knivert asked, hoping that his hint would penetrate Henry's anger and make him see that his indignation at Anne's unwillingness to forgive him was at least partially unreasonable. If she did not know of the way that her father had been prepared to abandon her when she was placed under arrest, in order to save his own skin, and if she did not know of the things that the Lady Mary had said about her before the young girl took the Oath, then she could hardly be expected to feel the same way about their offences as she did about Henry's willingness to allow her to be executed and sentenced to death for a crime she had not committed.

He couldn't think of many people who would easily be able to forgive that.

In her shoes, he would not be eager for Henry's company right now.

Unfortunately, Henry didn't seem to take his unspoken meaning. He looked at Knivert as though he thought him lacking in wits. "Why would I distress my wife by telling her something like that when it would only cause her pain to hear it?" He asked indignantly, scowling at his friend and ignoring the fact that he had said plenty of things to Anne that had caused her pain, things that had frightened her and brought tears to her eyes, never caring if he wounded her with his words.

There had been times when he had even taken a vicious joy in seeing her close to tears, knowing that he was the one who had the power to make her feel so distressed.

"Of course you wouldn't, Your Majesty." Knivert agreed hastily. "I'm sorry."

"Lady Mary is forgiven, despite everything she has done, and she's being treated like she's the Queen's favourite little sister. Lord Wiltshire is forgiven and welcomed back into her life with open arms. Neither of them have done anything like what I've done to try to make amends with her but they're the ones who are forgiven while she won't even speak to me. Nobody can say that I haven't been patient with her – if my father or my grandmother were alive, they'd tell me that I've been far too patient with her and that I need to put her in her place, once and for all, and show her that, however she feels, I expect her to behave as my Queen ought to behave!"

"Forgive me, Your Majesty, but I think that you need to be gentle with the Queen." Knivert said hastily, afraid that Henry's temper might lead to a nasty confrontation with his wife, one that would do their relationship more harm than good and that might even make it impossible for them to be reconciled. He did not know Anne well but he knew enough about her to be sure that she would not meekly give in if Henry shouted at her about her behaviour, she would just get even angrier with him than she was already, and his treatment of her would add to her existing grievances against him. If he wanted his wife back, he couldn't take a heavy approach with her.

"I've been gentle with her for more than two months." Henry grumbled, preferring to think of Anne's behaviour as unreasonable than to allow himself to acknowledge that he might have hurt her so badly that not even the kindness with which he tried to treat her and the reassurance he tried to give her about her status and Elizabeth's was enough to make things right, that he owed it to her to do far more to make amends before he could expect to be forgiven.

"I know." Knivert agreed, wishing that somebody else could be the one to have to deal with this issue in his place.

Once, he had resented the fact that Brandon was closer to Henry than he was, envying the other man the extensive gifts he was showered with as the closest friend of the King's, even though Knivert, like William Compton, was just as loyal a friend to Henry as Brandon was. The day he heard that Brandon was to be given the title of Duke of Suffolk, raised to the highest rank of the nobility at a stroke, on the King's whim, Knivert had felt almost sick with jealousy, feeling that Brandon had done nothing special to deserve such an extraordinary honour and envying him the King's high regard, and the fact that he was always the first man, next to Cardinal Wolsey, in whom Henry chose to confide, and that he was rewarded accordingly.

Now he felt as though he would cheerfully step back so that Brandon could resume his old place as the King's confidant but he knew that the other man was still in disgrace and that it could be a long time before he would once again be welcomed back into the King's inner circle as he was before – if he was ever allowed to enjoy the King's friendship and favour as he had before.

With the way the wind was blowing now, Knivert wouldn't be surprised if the tensions between Brandon and the Queen and her family would be enough to ensure that he would never again enjoy his old, favoured position as the King's closest friend. He could easily find himself being banished from the court, forbidden to return, despite the fact that his eldest son was the King's nephew and despite the fact that he had enjoyed a position of such high regard until recently, while the lady he had quarrelled with had only narrowly escaped a traitor's death.

In the meantime, Knivert had inherited Brandon's place as the King's confidant and he was learning that it was not an easy task by any means. Brandon had earned his rewards!

"I've got to take her to France with me next week, and the Princess Royal too." Henry continued, imagining what King Francis would think when he arrived with a child still a month away from her third birthday in his train, along with the governess, nurses and maids-in-waiting that a child as young as Elizabeth would require to tend to her needs. The ambassador arranging the meeting had already had to ask for a nursery to be prepared. He was going to look foolish bringing such a young child with him on a state visit – even if Elizabeth's betrothal to the Duke of Angouleme provided a justification for her inclusion in the party – especially since Francis would know that it was at Anne's wish that Elizabeth was to be present, since she wasn't willing to leave her behind.

"Maybe the journey will be good for the Queen." Knivert suggested optimistically. "She likes France, doesn't she? She grew up there after all, and it's said that she's still fond of French fashions. She might be happy to have the chance to go there with you." Had he been speaking with any man but his King, he would have suggested that the atmosphere at the French court might be more romantic than that of the English court, where their every move would be subject to the scrutiny of hundreds of courtiers, but he didn't dare to say it to Henry.

They might be speaking man to man but he was not such a fool as to forget that Henry was not just another man, he was his sovereign lord, upon whose favour and friendship he depended.

"We were happy there the last time we went." Henry remarked, more to himself than to Knivert, remembering their visit less than four years earlier.

He was so proud of Anne then, proud to be able to present his beautiful bride-to-be to his fellow monarch and delighted to know that King Francis, a man known to have an eye for beautiful women, would desire Anne as soon as he laid eyes on her, as all men who saw her must, but that he would know that she was Henry's, and that he would never be able to possess her, no matter how much he wanted to. Anne was the one prize that Francis could never hope to be able to win away from Henry. Francis would know that, while he was forced to take first his cousin, Queen Claude, and later the Emperor's dour sister as a wife, whether he liked it or not, Henry was going to enjoy a true privilege for a monarch; he was going to marry a beautiful, charming and intelligent lady with whom he was passionately in love, a lady he had freely chosen.

He had no doubt that it would amuse Francis to see him return, less than four years later, with that same lady, knowing that she was angry and resentful with him over what had happened. Even if diplomacy kept Francis from openly drawing attention to the discord between the King and Queen of England, Henry did not doubt that the other man would find at least a dozen spitefully subtle ways of drawing attention to the state of their marriage, holding him up to ridicule.

"What happens if she says something?" Henry asked Knivert, hoping for reassurance that he did not need to worry. "What if she lets them see that she's angry with me? I can't have the French laughing at me and saying that the King of England's wife can't bear the sight of him!" The thought of the humiliation of knowing that the French would be laughing at him was a mortifying one. For a moment, he was tempted to send for the French ambassador and cancel the trip altogether, for fear of what Anne might say or do if she didn't want to keep their problems a private matter.

"I'm sure that Your Majesty doesn't need to worry about that." Knivert said in a calming tone, hoping that he was right. "Her Majesty knows how important this visit is, and I'm sure that she'll want to see to it that it goes smoothly, since she favours an alliance with France." He pointed out, crediting Anne with enough intelligence to ensure that, regardless of her feelings towards Henry, she would never do anything that would sabotage an important alliance, one that she had particular reason to desire, given the Emperor's less than warm feelings towards her, in contrast to the King of France's relative good will and support for her marriage. "And the visit is an important one for the Princess Royal too – the Queen won't do anything to spoil her betrothal, I'm sure of that. She'll want it to go well for the Princess' sake."

"You're probably right." Henry agreed, wishing that his friend could have said something about Anne not wanting to humiliate him before his fellow monarch, even if they were having problems, telling him that, as angry as she was, she wouldn't hurt him like that. He would have liked some reassurance that Anne still cared enough for him to ensure that she would not deliberately set out to expose him to embarrassment and ridicule, especially before King Francis, whom she knew to be his rival and the last man he would ever want to see him discomfited.

Hearing the approach of footsteps, he stopped speaking, not wanting to air his private affairs before those who had no business knowing about his personal life. He forced himself to smile and nod pleasantly at a pair of ladies who were out walking, noticing that one of them, a fair-haired beauty, allowed her gaze to meet his for a moment longer than was proper before she lowered her eyes and curtseyed to him. Half a year ago, he would have returned her interested gaze, deciding whether or not she was attractive enough to tempt him and whether or not he should have Brandon make discreet enquiries of the lady and of any relatives that she might have at court with her, to find out whether she and they would be amenable to her sharing his bed for the night, but today he wasn't interested in her, or in any other woman.

Anne was trouble enough for him.

He could see the grim humour in the situation; not long ago, his interest in spending time with Anne was minimal, and their nights together were, more often than not, a duty for him rather than a pleasure, a means to beget the heir that he needed to give to his country. There was no shortage of willing ladies with whom he could find a physical release and, when he met Jane, he was so certain that he had found the perfect woman, a woman who would make him happy and who would heal the hurts that Anne had caused to his country and to his family.

Had he listened to Cromwell, had he decided that it was better for him to allow Anne to be executed, even though he knew her to be innocent, since her death would free him to take a new wife, what would his life be like now?

He would be married to Jane Seymour, he knew that much. However much it had disappointed him to learn that the woman he had thought of as perfect possessed more than her fair share of ambition, he thought that he still would have wanted to marry her, deeming her beauty and her kind nature to be compensation enough for her faults. The people would have accepted her and, in time, grown to love her, forgetting Anne and her sordid trial and execution. Jane would have befriended Mary, and brought her back to court, so he would still have his daughter in his life.

He would miss Elizabeth, though.

Over the past couple of months, with Elizabeth making her home at court, he had been able to spend a great deal of time with his younger daughter and in Elizabeth, he saw so much to be proud of, so much for a father to rejoice in. She was a beautiful, intelligent, charming, witty and spirited little girl, a true Tudor rose, one who was made even more singular by the qualities that she had inherited from her mother. He was happy when he played with her, enjoying the romps in the nursery as much, if not more, than he had enjoyed the jousting and the masques that he had once delighted in, and when he gave Elizabeth her new titles as Princess Royal and Duchess of York, her joy was infectious and his pride in his beautiful daughter knew no bounds.

If he had left Anne to die, he would have missed not having Elizabeth in his life... and he would miss Anne too.

As exasperating as her coldness was, it felt right to have her back at court, right to see her playing with their daughter and sitting by his side when they dined in state or entertained a visiting dignitary, right to see her going among the people to distribute alms and to see that, at last, his people were coming to love their Queen, as he once wished they would. He might have been able to find a measure of happiness with Jane but he didn't think that it would ever have felt _right_ to have her by his side as his Queen. For better or worse, that was a place only Anne could fill.

He wanted her back, the way she was before, as his passionate, loving Queen.

He didn't want the sombre, distant stranger she had become.

* * *

When Anne came down to the Great Hall for the evening meal, she looked every inch a Queen. She always took great care with her appearance but, looking at her now, Henry could imagine that she must have made a special effort tonight. Her gown was made of rich, ruby coloured silk, covered with intricate gold embroidery that glowed warmly in the light of the torches that illuminated the Hall. Her jewellery had been chosen to compliment her gown but, despite the fact that the pieces she wore were part of the collection of the official jewels of the Queens of England and were worth a King's ransom, they did not look too ornate for the occasion – indeed, he thought that they looked as though they were a part of Anne, as though they belonged on her and nobody else. Her hair was curled and put up in an elegant twist, crowned with a ruby tiara.

The Lady Mary followed after her, walking scarcely a pace behind Anne, as was her right as the King's daughter, and she too was beautifully dressed in a blue satin gown, her hair secured by a silver fillet. Henry studied his elder daughter carefully as she entered, wondering if he would see Mary betray some sign of sullenness or discontent, a flicker of emotion that would reveal that, despite the fact that she had yielded and acknowledged that she was a bastard, the product of an accursed union, and the fact that she was accepting the kindness that Anne showed her, she still resented her stepmother and disliked her, so much so that she would have been much happier if Anne had been executed and she had a new stepmother instead. However, Mary seemed to be in good spirits and she was chatting quite happily with Anne when the two women entered the room.

Henry strode across to them, inclining his head respectfully to his wife before he extended his two hands to Anne, inwardly breathing a sigh of relief when she placed her hands in his, allowing him to draw her forward to kiss her on both cheeks. He would have liked it if she was more responsive to his embrace but she remained chilly and distant, much to his dismay. He reminded himself of Knivert's words about being patient and allowing Anne time but he felt as though his patience and her time were beginning to run out.

Whatever Anne might feel, she had to know how important it was that they should show their court a united front instead of giving the courtiers cause to gossip about the division between their King and Queen. Coming down to the Hall to dine might seem like a good beginning but it would have little impact if the courtiers could see from her demeanour that she was deigning to join them only for the sake of appearances and that, but for that, she would remain in her rooms.

He covered his irritation as best he could, offering his arm to Anne to conduct her to the table. "My Queen." His greeting was formal but he tried to make it sound affectionate as well, to show her that, even if she was not willing to make the effort, he was going to try to make things right.

"Your Majesty." Anne returned his greeting politely, allowing him to tuck her arm through his.

Henry sighed inwardly, wishing that she could have injected some warmth into her tone but he didn't say anything about it, opting to greet his daughter instead. "Lady Mary." He nodded at her, knowing that he should recognize the girl, now that she had proven herself to be a good, obedient daughter, one who repented of her previous defiance, but it still irritated him to see Mary walking by Anne's side and to see that the two of them evidently got on quite well. It might have pleased him under other circumstance – and when he first married Anne, he had hoped that Mary would be able to accept Archbishop Cranmer's verdict on the invalidity of his marriage to her mother and that she would be able to see that Anne could be a good friend to her – but not when their friendship was one that excluded him.

Had they been alone, he thought that he would want to shake Anne and to demand of her why, of all the people who had wronged her, only he was unworthy of her forgiveness.

Because they were in public, he couldn't say anything of the sort. Because they were in public, he had to conduct Anne to her place at the table, by his side and, when he had seated her, to take his own place so that the rest of the court, who were obliged to remain standing until the King and Queen were seated, could take their places.

Elizabeth was too young to join them for the evening meal tonight, as it was a treat she was only allowed to enjoy on special occasions. Had she been present, she would have occupied the place on Henry's other side, as befitted a princess but this evening, that place was vacant. Mary could not be allowed to fill it as, despite her submission, care still had to be taken to ensure that neither she nor the court were given the wrong impression about her status. She was the King's daughter, and entitled to be honoured as such, but she was not a princess and could not be treated like one.

With Elizabeth absent, the places on either side of the King and Queen were not laid and the chairs were taken away, so that a respectful distance could be preserved between the royal couple and those who were to have the privilege of sitting at the top table with them. As Brandon was the highest-ranking noble present, outside the members of the royal family, he and his wife and son would usually be invited to sit with the King and Queen but Henry didn't want to upset Anne by having Brandon sitting with them, not after what he had done to her, and he couldn't ask young Lord Edward to sit with them when his father was not invited to do so.

To please Anne, Henry asked her father and her brother to join them for the meal, and he also invited Knivert to sit with them, wanting to have somebody at the table who viewed him as a friend.

He usually had a great appetite for food and, since he had become King, he had rejoiced in ensuring that, even on ordinary days, the tables in the Hall were laid out at least as well as they would have been for the most important feasts in his father's time. He could remember, all too well, what it was like when he was a boy, growing up under his father's thumb, when his father insisted that, apart from feast days, he should restrict himself to plain fare as much as possible, deeming it better for his health if he did not overindulge at table – as though a healthy appetite was something to be ashamed of, instead of a sign of a strong constitution! Now, every day, the tables groaned under the weight of the elaborate dishes prepared by a veritable army of kitchen servers, and Henry was confident that no other King in Europe kept such a fine table.

Tonight, however, he had little appetite for the sumptuous array of food laid before him.

He took a few bites from each of the dishes offered to him, knowing that if he refused them, so too would the rest of the court, in deference to his preferences, but the few mouthfuls he ate settled heavily in the pit of his stomach, as though he had been eating coarse bread, fit for a peasant rather than the delicious fare fit for a King.

If he did not know that it would excite gossip among a court that already spent far too much of its time gossiping about him, and about the state of his marriage, he would have excused himself from the table and retired early to bed without bothering with the evening meal. Instead, he was obliged to remain in the Hall, seated in the full view of the courtiers assembled at the table below, knowing that there would be many of them who would be discreetly observing his every move, trying to judge his mood and to determine whether or not this would be a good time for them to seek an audience with him, and to drop heavy hints about the positions or favours that they might hope to gain from him.

For the sake of appearances, he kept a smile on his face as he chatted with his wife, questioning Anne about the preparations she was making for their trip to France and smiling at her account of Elizabeth's delight in the new gowns that had been ordered for her. However, far too soon for his liking, Anne became quiet, as though she had run out of things she wished to say to him, things that she felt she could safely discuss with him, as though she felt that she could not continue their conversation without saying something she shouldn't, and now felt awkward in his presence.

Much as Henry resented the fact that Anne had been able to forgive Mary when she could not forgive him, he was grateful to Mary when she spoke to Anne, distracting her attention. He listened to what they were saying with half an ear for a few moments but it was plain to him that their conversation was not one that included him and, rather than push his way into it, running the risk that once he voiced his opinion, their conversation would taper off into silence, he sought to distract himself as best he could, looking down at the sea of courtiers before him, observing which people had chosen to sit together and which were left out.

He was grimly amused to see that Brandon and his wife were sitting by themselves, with their nearest neighbours moving further down the benches so that they would not have to sit too close to them. He was glad to see that the members of his court knew that Brandon's conduct towards Anne had been completely unacceptable and that they were shunning him for it.

It was no less than he deserved.

Perhaps this period of isolation and disgrace would teach him that, in the future, he needed to take care not to presume on Henry's friendship for him. Brandon might be one of his closest friends, a man he had known since they were boys and whom he liked and trusted, a man he had singled out for special honours and who was even forgiven when he went behind Henry's back and married his sister, an act of treason that another King would surely have sent him to the block for, but he was also Henry's subject and, as his subject, it was his duty to honour and to obey both the King and Queen, as well as their daughter.

He needed to learn this lesson before he could hope to be favoured once more.

A flash of blonde hair caught his eye and, for a brief instant, he thought that Jane might have chosen to brave his anger and return to court, despite the fact that he had made it plain to her that she would never again be welcome there. It was not Jane, however; it was the young woman he had encountered when he was out walking in the gardens with Brandon.

She looked up from the meal, as though she could sense that he was watching her, and when she met his gaze, her smile was an inviting one, enticing him to come to speak to her.

He could have her.

He knew that just by looking at her.

His wife might not crave his company, much less want to share his bed, but this woman, whose name he did not even know, was attracted to him and she was not taking any pains to hide that face. If he wanted her, he could have her, all he had to do was make his intentions known, and he would be able to arrange it so that they could be together privately, away from the prying eyes of the court, from those who would disapprove of him taking a mistress after everything that had happened with Anne, even if they would never dare to say so, and those who would be pleased to see that he was favouring another woman instead of devoting himself to Anne.

Not many months ago, Anne would have followed his gaze jealously if she saw that he was looking at another woman, and even if she tried to hide it, her displeasure would be plain to everybody who could see the expression on her face and the jealousy in her eyes as she watched. As irritating as it had been to be married to a woman who didn't know that a good wife should close her eyes if her husband took a mistress, knowing that it was not her place to criticize his conduct and that she had no right to interfere with anything that gave him pleasure, with hindsight, Anne's jealousy when she learned that he had a mistress at least proved that she cared for him, enough so that she would resent any woman who won his attention away from her.

He turned his head the barest fraction, so that he could look at Anne out of the corner of his eye, wondering if she would betray some sign of jealousy this time. Anne had never been good at concealing her feelings, as a Queen ought to, and he knew her well enough to be able to detect any changes in her expression, even small ones that others, people who did not know her well, people who had not spent years studying every detail of her exquisite face and marvelling at its beauty, even when she was sombre or angry, might not detect immediately.

He wanted to see that she was jealous.

He didn't want to hurt her, and if she was jealous, he would make sure that he reassured her later that night, as soon as they could be alone, letting her know that she didn't need to worry, but right now, he wanted to see that she still loved him enough to be jealous if she saw him looking at another woman, a pretty woman, one who was several years Anne's junior, and showing that he was attracted to her... but there wasn't a flicker of emotion in her eyes.

Maybe she hadn't noticed. She was engrossed in her conversation with Mary, after all, and Henry thought that she might not have been paying any attention to what he was doing. If he wanted to test her reaction, he would have to make sure that she could see what he was doing. Otherwise, he would never be able to know for certain, and might get the wrong impression.

He drummed his fingers on the carved arms of his throne, eager for the meal to be over, so that the tables could be cleared to allow the courtiers to mingle. Time seemed to slow to a crawl and Henry didn't think that he had ever seen his courtiers dawdle over their meals for so long. It was as though they were deliberately trying to eat as slowly as they possibly could in order to provoke him, as though they knew that he was eager for the meal to be over and wanted to thwart him!

Finally, he was able to give the order that the tables should be cleared, and that the musicians in the gallery should play music for dancing. As custom demanded, he led Anne out to the hastily cleared space in the middle of the Hall so that they might have the first dance together but, to his disappointment, although she accompanied him willingly enough, she did not seem eager to remain for a second dance and he had to let her go, opting to partner Mary next.

"Are you enjoying yourself at court, Mary?" He asked her as he twirled her around on the dance floor, smiling indulgently at her pleasure – though his brow creased in a frown when he noticed that several of the young men of the court were following Mary with their eyes, their admiration plain. That was not something that he approved of! Mary might be a bastard but she was still the daughter of the King of England and therefore too precious to be given in marriage to any mere courtier, even if some of the young men at court belonged to august families.

In time, he would have to find a kind, suitable husband for Mary but, until then, he intended to keep a sharp eye on the young men of his court, to ensure that none of them dared to take liberties with his daughter.

"Yes, Your Majesty." Mary responded honestly, knowing that, all things considered, her lot at court was a very comfortable one, especially when she compared it to her previous position.

Henry shook his head slightly. "No, 'Father'." He corrected her gently, not liking to hear her address him so formally. While he did not want Mary to forget her duty to him as a subject to her King, especially when it had taken her so long to learn that duty, he did not like to hear one of his children speaking to him as though he was a stranger. Mary was his daughter and he wanted her to be affectionate to him, as a daughter to her father.

He could remember that Thomas More enjoyed a very warm, comfortable relationship with his children, particularly his eldest daughter, Meg, and Henry had envied him that easy closeness. More might have shown his disloyalty when he refused to take the Oath but he certainly could not be faulted where his affection for his family was concerned and Henry thought that he would do well to emulate his former friend when it came to his relationships with his daughters. He wanted Elizabeth and Mary to love him the way More's children had loved him.

Mary's smile was shy as she answered him, her voice almost reverent as she spoke the word "Father." It had been a long time since her father had singled her out like this.

They were halfway across the dance floor when Henry caught sight of the young woman he had been looking at earlier and he was gratified to see that, although she had been dancing with another man, she was more than willing to leave her partner unceremoniously to dance with him, as soon as he had loosed Mary's hand so that he could reach out to her.

Had he looked at Mary, Henry would have seen the hurt on his daughter's face, along with her embarrassment at being left standing alone in the middle of the Hall, in the midst of the dancing couples, but he didn't spare her a glance. She was already forgotten. The only person he looked at was the young woman in his arms and he smiled at her as he twirled her through the dance, happily conscious of the fact that she must be one of the loveliest women present and imagining that there would be more than a few men who envied him because he was able to hold her.

"What is your name, my lady?" He asked courteously, before sweeping her up so that he could spin her around in the air, grimacing inwardly at the pain the strain of her weight caused his leg.

"Agnes Parker, Your Majesty." Although she lowered her eyes when she responded, as befitted a maiden, there was no trace of demureness in her demeanour and, when she looked up at him again, there was a mischievous glint in her eyes and her smile could only be described as cheeky.

"Agnes Parker." Henry repeated her name slowly, wondering if she was any relation to Lord Morley, father of Lady Rochford, who had been born Jane Parker. Although Henry had decided not to have Lady Rochford executed for her part in the false charges laid against Anne and George Boleyn, or even to have her imprisoned for a prolonged period, as even Anne was advocating that mercy should be shown to the wretched woman, he knew that George was already making moves to divorce his wife, and that his petition would be granted. When she was released from the Tower, instead of rejoining George at court, she would be sent back to her father.

"Yes, Your Majesty." Agnes confirmed, winking at him as she twirled away from him before returning to his arms.

"Are you new at court?" Henry asked, smiling when she nodded confirmation. "Then I hope that you will be happy here."

"I'm sure that I will, Your Majesty." She assured him, leaning slightly closer to him.

The form of the dance had led them in a wide circle of the Hall but now that they were, once more, drawing closer to the dais where Anne was sitting, watching the dancing, Henry could feel his heartbeat quickening, the rush of his blood heating his cheeks and making his palms feel moist as he anticipated Anne's likely reaction when she saw him with another woman and thought that she had a new rival.

With Lady Eleanor Luke, Anne had dismissed the woman from her household when she learned that she was his mistress, an action that would have infuriated Henry if Katherine had been the one to do it, back when he still believed himself to be married to her, and one that he had had every intention of reproving her for when he learned of Lady Eleanor's departure from court, and that she had left on Anne's orders. He might have commanded her to send a message to Lady Eleanor and her family immediately, inviting her to return to court and to her position as lady-in-waiting, apologizing for having dismissed her without just cause, if not for Anne's explanation.

_"She stole something precious from me." Anne had clearly been expecting to be questioned about Lady Eleanor's disappearance, and she had her response prepared when he called her to him to ask her why her lady-in-waiting was no longer a member of her household._

_"Are you sure she stole it?" Henry pressed. Because of the child she was carrying, he would not have lost his temper with her, for fear that the distress might harm their son, but he wasn't willing to simply let the matter rest at that. He couldn't imagine that Lady Eleanor, who enjoyed their lovemaking as much as he did and who must surely know that, as long as she pleased him, she did not need to fear anybody at court, including the Queen, would have simply left court when Anne ordered her to, not without coming to him and appealing to him to intervene on her behalf. He was certain that there was something else at play, and he was in two minds over whether he should look into it or simply leave the matter to rest, and find another lady to amuse himself with._

_"Yes." Anne's voice was firm, without a trace of apprehension, and she looked him straight in the eye as she spoke. "I had the evidence. I had no choice."_

She had had a choice, of course.

Ordinarily, Henry would have said that her choice should have been plain.

Even if Lady Eleanor had proven to be a lazy, or even disrespectful attendant to Anne once she had Henry's favour as his mistress, Anne did not need to dismiss her from her service. She could... should... have retained Lady Eleanor as a member of her household, knowing that it pleased Henry to have the woman available to him whenever he desired her company, and closing her eyes, as a Queen ought to, as Katherine had before her, and countless other ladies whose husbands sought pleasure outside the bounds of the marriage bed. She should have kept out of the affair, and remembered that it was none of her business what he chose to do, or who he did it with.

However, he was touched by her use of the word "precious", and the knowledge that she was speaking of him alone, touched to know that her love for him was so strong that she was willing to brave his anger in order to banish a woman she viewed as a threat to their love from court.

Once she said that, he couldn't rebuke her, much less command her to invite Lady Eleanor back.

With Madge Shelton, Anne never seemed to be aware of their relationship, something Henry was glad of. Madge was not his mistress for long but he enjoyed their time together, and he thought fondly of her after it was over. He was more discreet with Madge, not wanting to openly taunt Anne with their liaison, and it seemed to have passed unnoticed. She certainly never made any move to have Madge dismissed from her household as Lady Eleanor was, and she seemed to be as friendly with her cousin as she ever was before.

More recently in their marriage, as he spent fewer and fewer nights sharing her bed, Anne became more suspicious than ever about his infidelity, assuming that each time he stopped to speak to another woman, it meant that she was his mistress or that he hoped that she would be, and that each time he went out without her, he was going to women procured for him by Brandon, and other nobles. She made scenes then, laughing aloud in the middle of a banquet for the Admiral of France and drawing everybody's attention, following him into the courtyard when he was going riding and questioning him about his affairs when they were alone together, even when he made it plain to her that he had no intention of discussing the subject.

How would she react to Agnes, to seeing him dancing with a lovely young woman and knowing that, if he wished, she would gladly share the bed that Anne was shunning?

Although the idea of Anne openly voicing her indignation and dismay at this was not without its appeal, especially at it would prove to everybody present that his wife still loved him, despite everything that had happened recently and despite the coldness with which she treated him, Henry didn't think that he wanted her to make a public scene. It would be better if she tried to control herself until they were alone, then she could take him to task and he could assure her that he had never had any intention of bedding Agnes Parker, or any other lady at court save Anne herself.

Once Anne calmed down, once she realized how jealous she had been to see him with Agnes, she would know that there could only be one reason why she would be so jealous – she still loved him, she still wanted him and she still hated the idea of sharing him with any other woman. God willing, the prospect of losing his love to another woman would make her realize how much she valued it, even if she hadn't wanted to admit that before, and she would know that she had to work with him so that they could rebuild their relationship as man and wife and rekindle the love they once shared, the love that they could share again if she would allow it.

Though she did not yet know it, Agnes was going to help him win his wife back.

He heard her breathy giggle as he drew her closer to him, closer than was strictly proper and closer than the other dancers were holding one another. Once he had her held closely in his arms, he whirled her around, as fast as he could, so that the motion would catch Anne's attention.

It did.

Henry saw her glance in his direction, looking straight at him and at Agnes before turning back to her father, with whom she was speaking. She had definitely seen him, he couldn't deceive himself on that count. She had seen him with Agnes in his arms, and she must have heard Agnes' giggles as he spun her around, and seen from the expression on her face that she was attracted to him but she hadn't said a word. She hadn't said a word, she hadn't frowned or looked hurt or betrayed so much as a flicker of emotion before resuming her conversation with her father.

She wasn't jealous this time, Henry realized, feeling his heart sink at the thought.

He had another woman in his arms, a pretty woman who would happily become his mistress if he signalled that this was his wish, and Anne didn't care.

What was he supposed to do now?


	18. Chapter 18

**_1st August 1536_ **

When Mary was a little girl, she accompanied her parents to Calais to attend the meeting dubbed the Field of the Cloth of Gold, the meeting honouring a new alliance between England and France.

In those days, she was too young to realize that her mother was unhappy about the alliance, and unhappier still about the fact that Mary was to be betrothed to the Dauphin of France in order to seal an alliance that she viewed as detrimental to the long-existing ties between England and Spain, her home country, ties that she had always done her utmost to strengthen and encourage, knowing that this was what her parents had wanted from her when they decided to agree to a betrothal between their youngest daughter and Prince Arthur, the then heir to the English throne.

For Katherine of Aragon, the prospective meeting was something to be endured rather than enjoyed and celebrated, and her hope would have been that the newfound friendship between England and France would not long outlast the meeting, that her husband's resentment towards the House of Valois for usurping the French crown, which he saw as his birthright, would resurface and he would decide that it was better for him to ally with her nephew, the King of Spain, instead.

All Mary knew was that the meeting was to be a spectacular one, and one in which she was to play no small part, as her formal betrothal with the Dauphin was to set the seal on the alliance.

Sumptuous gowns, finer than any she had ever had before, were made for her, with small, dainty jewels sent from the treasury to the nursery so that she could try them on to see which one was most becoming with her new finery and her governess had carefully coached her so that, when she was presented to her future husband, in view of her future father- and mother-in-law and of the French court, she would be able to behave in a manner that would do honour to her status as the Princess of England and the future Dauphine of France... though poor Lady Salisbury was appalled when she learned that, despite all of her careful coaching before the event, Mary had scandalised those present when she shoved the luckless Dauphin, knocking the boy to his back in full view of the courtiers from both countries.

Lady Salisbury might have deemed her behaviour to be rude and unworthy of a princess, especially as she had allowed herself to lose her temper in public, before such august witnesses, but given how rudely the Dauphin had received her kiss, Mary felt that it had served him right if he was embarrassed to be knocked flat by a girl.

She was sure that, despite his show of disapproval, her father was not unhappy to see his daughter prevail over King Francis' son.

Before they set sail for Calais, the palace had been a flurry of activity as their belongings were packed, ready to be stowed onto the ship and brought across the sea, so that their party might enjoy all of the comforts and luxuries of Whitehall while they were away instead of having to content themselves with simpler accommodation and smaller retinues, as the family of an ordinary nobleman would if they were travelling. Her father had even ordered the building of a palace of wood and canvas in which to house the royal family and their most favoured courtiers, scorning the tents that housed the rest of the court, and that had been enough to satisfy Francis for his family and favourites, and feeling determined to show that he could do much better for his retinue.

Even as a child, Mary had known that her father was determined to see to it that the English court would travel and live in greater state than the French did during the visit, and been able to recognize that it would have been a grave disappointment to him if they had arrived in Calais to find that King Francis' preparations for the summit were grand enough to eclipse his own.

In no way was he willing to be second to his rival King.

As a child, she had approved of his sentiments wholeheartedly, though she could sense that she should not express that opinion around her mother or her governess, both of whom would probably have considered it unchristian for her to wish that her father would outshine King Francis in all ways and who would have reminded her that there were far more important things than which King was dressed most grandly or accompanied by the most extravagant retinue. Mary, however, had devoutly hoped that her father would have his way and outdo King Francis.

She was proud of her Papa and proud of her country and she wanted them to be the best.

Today, however, as she watched an army of servants travelling to and fro, laden with trunks containing the belongings of the royal family and those courtiers who were to be permitted to accompany them on this trip, while stable hands lead out their masters' and mistresses' finest mounts, each horse brushed until his coat shone, each saddle polished and new saddlecloths laid out, she knew that the preparations for this trip were even more extensive than those for the Field of the Cloth of Gold, though perhaps that was not surprising, under the circumstances.

If her father had wanted to outdo King Francis before, when he had the luxury of knowing that, if he decided that he did not wish to ally with France, Spain would be more than willing to welcome the idea of an alliance with England, whose Queen was a Spanish princess by birth, ensuring that the two countries were already tied by the crimson cord of blood kindred, then he would be doubly determined to impress and outdo him now, when he needed Francis' friendship in order to help bolster Anne and Elizabeth's positions, both in England and abroad.

By taking them with him on this visit, he would be obliging the French royal family to receive them as the Queen of England and as the Princess Royal and heiress presumptive to the English throne, and to do so publicly, something that would serve as a warning to anybody who might seek to intervene after his death and deprive Elizabeth of the throne her father wished to leave to her so that Mary – or perhaps their cousin Edward Brandon, if the people were satisfied that neither of the King's daughters could be considered entirely legitimate or if they feared that, as females, neither she nor Elizabeth were as fit to rule as their male cousin – might be crowned in her place.

King Francis would have a vested interest in seeing to it that his son's future wife, a girl who would be an ally to France when she was Queen and who would bequeath her throne to his grandsons, inherited the throne instead of Mary, of Spanish blood and close kin to the Emperor, even if it meant war in order to see that Elizabeth was crowned Queen and able to retain the throne.

Queen Eleanor might be the Emperor's sister but she was also the wife of the King of France and, as such, she would be obliged to welcome Anne as a fellow Queen, true wife of the King of England, and to extend to her the best of French hospitality... just as she would be obliged to treat Mary, her own cousin, whom she surely viewed as the legitimate daughter of the King of England and the rightful Princess of Wales, with no more honour or recognition than any royal bastard would be due, should they be honoured with inclusion in a visiting monarch's retinue.

If Mary's young half-brother, the Duke of Richmond, was still alive and their father chose to include him in the party travelling to France – something that Mary imagined he would wish to do, given how proud he was of the boy and how eager he would have been to show that he too had fathered a son, even if that son could not claim legitimacy or a right to succeed to the throne – the French would have to greet him before they could greet Mary, allowing Bessie Blount's bastard to take precedence over a trueborn princess by virtue of his male sex, as well as his noble titles.

It was painful to think like that, and Mary had suffered so much pain that she forced those thoughts to the back of her mind, wanting to be thankful for the good things she now enjoyed in her life and to focus on the fruits of her submission instead of on the rights she had surrendered.

Four of her attendants were to accompany her to France, and her trunk was well stocked with new gowns, of rich materials and beautiful design, while her senior lady-in-waiting was entrusted with the task of guarding the casket in which her jewels were carried. Anne had already assured her that the French ambassador had been told to see to it that she would be housed with comfort and honour when they arrived in Paris, and stayed in King Francis' magnificent palace. She knew that she would not need to worry that she might find herself relegated to humble accommodation to highlight her bastard status; her father wished for her to be honoured as his daughter, and King Francis would comply with his wishes, seeing to it that she was housed in an honourable state.

Even if King Francis counted her cousin as his enemy, he would not set out to deliberately humiliate Mary, especially if it meant risking her father's anger.

She was even to ride with Anne in her carriage when they set out for the port, where their ship awaited them, ready to convey them to Calais, where they could rest before beginning the next stage of their journey. Horses and carriages would be waiting there to bring them to Paris.

Mary had anticipated that she would be relegated to a carriage or a litter further back in the procession, one that would have the windows covered or the hangings tightly closed to ensure that nobody would be able to see her as she passed but instead, she was to ride with Anne in the royal carriage, and Elizabeth would travel with them, the King's wife and his two daughters together.

As pleased as she was to be given a prominent place in the procession, something she saw as no more than her right as her father's daughter, no matter what title she might be called by, when Mary first heard of it, she wondered whether Anne would be worried that, if the people were allowed to see her, if they could see the girl who was one their Princess of Wales and to whom they had once pledged their devotion, they would cry out for Mary, loudly pledging their support to her as their Princess and the true heir to the throne, denouncing those who had forced her to call herself a bastard in order to save her life and demanding her restoration ahead of Elizabeth.

If Anne had had any such fears, she need not have worried.

As their belongings were being stowed on carts, with the courtiers taking their places in the procession, in strict order of precedence – save for the fact that the two Boleyn men were to be allowed to ride directly behind Anne's carriage, ahead of the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk, despite their lower rank – waiting for the royal family to ready themselves to depart, the crowds began to gather outside the gates of the palace, with hundreds, perhaps thousands of people jostling one another in order to secure the best vantage point and all of them calling for Queen Anne, whose appearance prompted a hearty ripple of applause and calls of welcome and good will.

They didn't notice Mary, or even her father. They had eyes only for Anne, and for little Elizabeth, whose dainty curtsey and beaming smile delighted the crowd who had come to see them off.

"Bless the little Princess, she's the image of her mother!"

"Did you ever see such a lovely child?"

"Sweet little angel – she'll be as beautiful as her Ma one day, mark me!"

"God bless Queen Anne and the Princess Royal!"

Mary could see from Elizabeth's smile and from the skip in her step as she allowed Anne to lead her over to their carriage that her little sister was thrilled with the admiration and acclaim of the people who called out to her and she couldn't help but smile at the child's enthusiasm, enthusiasm that she could remember sharing when she was a child and a precocious little princess adored by her parents and by the people of England, and when she delighted in hearing them call out compliments and blessings to her whenever she appeared in front of them, walking to Mass with her mother or attending a celebration, sandwiched between her two doting parents.

Elizabeth wasn't even three yet, too young to know that the people's love could be fickle, unaware of the fact that, a year ago, many of the people who were now calling on God to bless her and her mother and exclaiming over her beauty were denouncing Anne as a whore and Elizabeth herself as a bastard, a child they would never accept as Princess ahead of Mary, whom they then saw as the rightful heir, just as she was unaware of the fact that she could easily have become the King's forgotten bastard, exiled from their father's sight and banished from the memories of the people.

Time would soon teach her that all that glisters was not gold and, until then, Mary could not begrudge Elizabeth her childish innocence.

The world would rob her of it when she was older. She should enjoy it while she could.

Mary watched her father carefully, though discreetly, wondering how he would feel to see his people calling out for Anne and for Elizabeth while they never mentioned him.

Was he pleased to see that Anne and Elizabeth were accepted at last, after all he had had to do in order to make the English people accept them as Queen and Princess, or was he jealous that he was excluded from the shouted blessings? Was he remembering what it was like when the trial at Blackfriars was in progress, and the shouts were for Mary and her mother and against him, Anne and Wolsey? Was he worrying that his subjects' newfound love for Anne and Elizabeth might undermine their loyalty to him, their King, in favour of his wife and daughter?

She couldn't tell what he was thinking, but she could see that he was not happy.

Henry's feelings were mixed as he watched his subjects call out for Anne and for Elizabeth.

It was pleasing to see that his people had taken his wife and daughter to their hearts, as he had often prayed they would, back when he married Anne and when Elizabeth was born and he knew that, as far as his people were concerned, they were not the true Queen and Princess, titles they saw and belonging to Katherine and Mary. He was also pleased and relieved to see that they were not trying to stage a demonstration in Mary's favour instead, demanding the girl's restoration and making her doubt the truth, now that she had accepted it and admitted that she was illegitimate. However, he would have been much happier if just one of the shouted blessings was for him, if he could know that he too enjoyed the love of the crowd gathered outside his palace.

What if they shouted against him once they began to ride out?

He planned to ride on horseback, since the day was fine and the journey short, but would it be better to join the ladies in their carriage, even if it meant taking the chance that Anne would be displeased to have him join her and the girls, and that she might show her displeasure, intentionally or unintentionally, showing the people how she felt about him and that she had not yet forgiven him for her arrest or for the way she was condemned to death?

He could imagine that there would be many in the crowd, particularly among the women, who would not dream of faulting Anne for being cold and distant with him after what had happened and who felt that they would behave in the same way, if they stood in her shoes. They would not understand the role that Cromwell had played in the matter of Anne's arrest and trial and that Henry had been misled by friends and advisors whom he should have been able to trust. They would still blame him and he hated to think that they might make their feelings plain as he rode among them, as they had the day he was rowed to the Tower to bring Anne back to the palace.

He could still hear the scornful comments and feel the icy chill that had shuddered through him when he saw how low his people's opinion of him was. He never wanted to feel like that again.

When another solution struck him, he seized on it. Swinging onto the back of his horse and taking the reins from the hand of the groom who had prepared his mount, he nudged his horse over to the carriage, where his wife and daughters were settling themselves, with Elizabeth sitting between Anne and Mary. He held out his arms to Elizabeth, smiling at his lovely little girl. "Would you like to ride with Papa, sweetheart?" He asked genially, hoping that she would accept his invitation. Even if it was cowardice to want to hide behind the skirts of a toddler, at least he could be certain that insults would not be flung at him while he carried Elizabeth before him.

The crowd wouldn't want to distress a little child by cursing her father in her hearing.

Elizabeth clapped her plump hands in delight, looking to Anne for permission. "May I, Mama?"

"I'll ride carefully, sweetheart." Henry promised Anne hastily, afraid that she might object to the idea and, by objecting, ensure that Elizabeth would change her mind about riding with him.

Anne kissed the top of Elizabeth's head. "If you like, my darling." She told her, steadying her little girl and helping her climb up to stand on the cushioned seat of the carriage so that Henry could bend down and lift her onto the saddle in front of him. "Hold on tight." She cautioned.

"I will, Mama." Elizabeth promised solemnly, clinging to the horse's mane.

"So will I." Henry echoed Elizabeth's promise, wrapping his arm securely around her tiny waist so that she was resting comfortably against him. "Sit up straight, Elizabeth." He told her, tickling her under the chin before tilting her face a little so that her head was up. Her hair was mostly covered by an embroidered satin cap but a few strands were curling on her cheeks. "That's a good girl."

"I'd like a pony of my own, Papa." Elizabeth stated decidedly, leaning forward a little to pat the horse before straightening again, remembering what her papa had said about sitting up straight. "Can I have one? Please?" She was going to be three soon, she knew that, and when she was three there would be a party for her, and lots of gifts. She wanted a pony for one of her gifts.

Henry chuckled with genuine warmth, hearing in Elizabeth's request an echo of his own childhood, when he had longed for the day when the King and My Lady the King's Mother would deem him to be old enough to be trusted with his first pony, and when, once he had begun to learn how to ride, he would have spent all day in the saddle if he was permitted to, shunning other lessons, even those deemed to be more necessary by his father and his grandmother, who were determined to stuff his head with all the theology and Latin his tutors could drum into him, in order to prepare him for the life they had planned for him in the Church, in favour of time spent on horseback. She might have inherited a great deal from Anne but there could be no denying that Elizabeth was his child as much as hers. "I think that can be arranged, sweetheart." He agreed.

"Thank you, Papa!" Elizabeth's smile was wide as she straightened herself, leaning back against her father and holding tightly to the horse's mane, to show that she was big enough and clever enough to be trusted to ride a pony of her own properly, if she was given one for her birthday. That way, her Mama wouldn't have to worry that she might fall and hurt herself. "Look, Mama. Look, Mary." She called out to her mother and sister. "I'm riding a horse!"

"So you are, my little princess." Henry agreed, transferring the reins into the hand around Elizabeth's waist for a moment so that he could tip his hat to Anne and to Mary. "Ladies." He acknowledged them courteously before taking the reins in his free hand again, tapping the horse's belly with his heel and clicking his tongue to let the animal know that it was time for him to get moving. Elizabeth squealed at the motion but her squeal was one of joy and excitement, without a trace of fear. "You're going to be a fine horsewoman before you're much older, my Elizabeth." He predicted as their horse trotted out to the head of the procession, just ahead of the carriage.

Soldiers rode ahead of the royal family, and just behind them, bearing the royal standard.

"Will you teach me to ride, Papa?" Elizabeth asked coaxingly. "When we get back from France?"

Henry nodded, thinking that, since Anne wished to have their daughter brought up at court with them, rather than sent back to Hatfield and to her establishment there, it would give him a chance to supervise her riding lessons personally, a prospect he found very appealing.

When he was a little boy, he would have been thrilled to have his father spend time with him, teaching him to ride and playing with him as other fathers played with their sons.

"I will." He promised, leaning forward to kiss the top of Elizabeth's head. "And when you're bigger, we'll be able to go out riding together, you and me... and your Mama, if she'll join us." He added, remembering how much fun he had had years ago, when he and Anne went riding together, enjoying a few hours of snatched privacy, and hoping that she would be willing to join him and Elizabeth on their expeditions, when the time came. He was sure that Knivert would agree that it would do his family good to spend more time together, and to share amusing activities.

"I'd like that." Elizabeth told him decisively.

"Then it's settled." Henry agreed, wrapping his arm tightly around her waist as they set off, smiling at the cheers directed at the little princess in his arms and at the eager way in which Elizabeth greeted the acclaim, nodding and smiling at those who were there to pay her homage. Despite her young age, she carried herself with the composure of a Queen, he told himself, feeling proud of his beautiful little girl.

Even if things were bad with Anne now, even if their relationship might never recover, at least he would always have Elizabeth to console him for that.

* * *

Seasickness had never troubled Anne.

Perhaps it was that she had first travelled by sea at such a young age, when she was a little girl and her father sent her to the court of the Archduchess Margaret of Austria, so that she could live at the woman's palace and learn how to behave at a royal court, or perhaps her constitution was naturally strong, too strong to be troubled by something as trifling as the motion of the ship as it made its way across the English Channel, cutting through a sea that could be calm or rough depending on the often unpredictable English weather but either way, she was a good sailor, which made her rather a rarity among the ladies of the court.

Had she required the services of her ladies to attend her on this journey, she would have been in a bad way; with the exception of Nan Saville – and even she was looking very pale and far from comfortable – all of her attendants were confined to the cabins set aside for the Queen and her household, retching into basins with each movement of the ship and bemoaning the fact that they would have to make the same journey a second time, unless they wanted to settle in the French court and abandon their homeland altogether, as one or two of them had indicated their willingness to do, if it would mean that they would never again have to brave the sea.

Elizabeth's household had fared no better than her own.

Anne was hard-pressed to remind herself to be properly sympathetic and not to mock the misfortune of another when Lady Bryan came to see her but, between the green cast to the older woman's skin and the fact that the normally dignified and stately governess looked sorely in need of a basin in which to deposit every meal she had eaten over the past couple of days, the urge to giggle was almost unbearable. She had to bite her lower lip to keep a suitably grave and sympathetic expression on her face as Lady Bryan explained – with many apologies and grimaces as her stomach rebelled against the motion of the ship – that she was too unwell to care for Elizabeth as she ought to, begging Anne to find somebody else to tend to the little princess.

Anne was only too happy to take charge of Elizabeth herself.

Like her, Elizabeth had no trouble with sea sickness and she was quite happy to explore the ship, holding tightly to Anne's hands as she inspected everything she was permitted to come close to and peppered the sailors with questions whenever they were working near her. She was very disappointed when it was explained to her that ladies could not be sailors, especially when they were princesses, and even the promise of being allowed to sail on the royal barge, with her banner as Princess Royal flying, once they returned to England could not console her.

"I don't think it's fair that ladies can't be sailors if they want to, Mama." Elizabeth complained as her mother led her by the hand to the back of starboard side of the ship, where a portion of the deck had been cleared for them, with rugs, furs and cushions spread out to provide them with a comfortable area in which they could sit and relax, while some fruit, water and wine were arranged on trays, in case they became hungry or thirsty. "I could be as good a sailor as any man."

Anne smiled, able to imagine Elizabeth as captain of a ship, issuing orders to the sailors under her command and expecting them to be obeyed without question. "I'm sure that you could."

"Then why can't ladies be sailors?" Elizabeth asked, aggrieved at the thought that her sex could keep her from doing something that she wanted to do.

"Because then they'd sail so well that there wouldn't be any jobs left for the men sailors, and then who knows what kind of mischief they'd get up to if they were left idle." Anne's tone was grave as she answered but her eyes sparkled with mirth. In truth, she thought that Elizabeth had a good point and, even if sailing, like so many other professions, was reserved for men, that did not necessarily mean that no woman would be able to manage to perform the job just as well, if she was given the chance to try her hand at it and to show the world what she could do.

A hundred years ago, she was sure that virtually everybody in Christendom would have sworn that no woman would ever be able to rule over a country as well as a man could, let alone better, but Isabella of Castile had proven them wrong when she reigned over her country successfully, and Anne was certain that Elizabeth would be just as successful when her time came.

"Oh." Elizabeth accepted her mother's explanation, thinking that it made a lot of sense. She knew from Lady Bryan that she was already very clever, much cleverer than other children her age, even little boys, so it made sense to her that men sailors should be afraid that, if ladies were allowed to be sailors, they would do a better job of it than they did, just as Elizabeth was going to be a better scholar than any boy could when she was old enough to begin proper lessons. "I suppose we have to let them do some things." She decided at last, thinking that she could let a boy be a sailor instead of her. She was a Princess and she might even be a Queen one day if she had no brother, and that was much better.

"That's right, sweetheart." Anne agreed, reclining comfortably against the cushions and selecting a few berries from the plate of fruit in front of her to pass to Elizabeth, reminding herself to be careful not to give her too much fruit. Although Elizabeth's digestion might not be troubled by the motion of the ship, Anne still didn't want to take any chances of making her sick with too much fruit. A bout of sickness would certainly mar her daughter's pleasure in their journey.

Elizabeth accepted the fruit eagerly, munching on the berries with gusto and spreading juice all over her face and the front of her gown. It was fortunate that, despite her protests and her insistence that she wanted to wear her best gown for the journey, her governess had won that particular battle and dressed her in a simpler travelling gown, reserving her finest outfits for their arrival in Paris and her presentation to the King and Queen of France. As she chewed the berries, she scanned their surroundings with keen blue eyes, which lit up when she saw a familiar figure. "Look, Mama, it's the Lady Mary!" She announced in an excited tone, springing to her feet and running towards her sister before her mother could stop her.

It was fortunate for Elizabeth that Mary heard her approach and was ready to steady her, or she might have slipped on the wet deck and hurt herself but, as her older sister was able to catch her in her arms before she could lose her footing, she was safe.

"You need to be careful, sister." Mary chided Elizabeth, setting the little girl on her feet and holding her by the hand so that she couldn't run off. She knew Elizabeth well enough to be able to see that her little sister was becoming very excited about the trip and, like most small children, when she was excited, she became careless. "It is very easy to fall on a wet deck."

"That's right." Anne agreed, coming up to them and taking Elizabeth's other hand in hers. "You have to be careful, sweetheart, and to make sure that you don't go anywhere unless you are with an adult, do you understand? It's very important for you to help us keep you safe."

"Yes, Mama." Elizabeth answered, smiling up at her mother and sister in turn, knowing that her Mama wasn't angry with her, just worried for her. It felt nice to know that her Mama loved her so much that she always wanted her to be safe. "And Mary. I'll be very careful, I promise."

"Good girl." Anne ruffled Elizabeth's hair before turning her attention to Mary. "I see that you've been abandoned by your attendants as well, Mary." She remarked, seeing that Mary was alone. "Are they all seasick?" She asked, although she could guess the answer without voicing the question. Perhaps she should take her inspiration from Elizabeth's remarks and see to it that her ladies, and those who served her daughter and stepdaughter, should all have to serve their apprenticeships as sailors onboard a ship for a month or two, to permanently cure them of their seasickness. She was convinced that if her ladies had not become so worked up about the prospect of going to sea, half-convincing themselves that the sea would be rough and that the ship was likely to sink, they would not have had any trouble sailing.

"Yes, Your Majesty." Mary answered.

"I'm afraid that Elizabeth and I have also been abandoned." Anne said lightly as she led the way back to the rugs and cushions, motioning for Mary to join her and Elizabeth.

"Lady Bryan was _very_ sick." Elizabeth informed her sister blithely, sneaking another fistful of berries and cramming them into her mouth before anybody could stop her or chide her for being greedy. "She didn't get to a basin in time at first, so it went all over the floor... I mean the deck." She amended, remembering that one of the sailors had told her that, on a ship, you weren't supposed to call a floor a floor, even though that's what it was. "Then Lady Alice and Lady Barbara saw the mess and they got sick too. Everybody was sick except me, so now I get to stay with Mama and with you until we get to France." She concluded cheerfully, evidently deeming the suffering of her unfortunate attendants to be a small price to pay for her time with her mother.

Mary knew that she should probably feel sympathetic, especially since Lady Bryan was not a young woman and, between travelling by sea and taking care of a rambunctious child like Elizabeth, she could not have had an easy time of it before Elizabeth was taken away to be tended to by Anne but she couldn't keep a smile from her face at the thought of the governess who had seemed like a veritable dragon to her from the moment of their first meeting, and who had made her time in Elizabeth's household such a misery, succumbing to something as undignified as seasickness.

When she managed to get her mirth under control, at least enough so that she could be sure that she would not betray herself by chuckling if she opened her mouth, she spoke. "Poor lady." Mary was ill often enough for her to be able to understand how it felt to feel unwell... not that Lady Bryan had ever had much sympathy for Mary when she was sick during her time in Elizabeth's household at Hatfield. Usually, she was convinced that Mary was feigning her symptoms in order to avoid her duties as Elizabeth's attendant, duties that Lady Bryan was determined to see her carry out, whether she liked it or not, and she would only agree to send for a physician or to send word to Whitehall when Mary's condition became so serious that it was obvious that she could not be feigning her symptoms. Although she might not have liked having Mary at Hatfield, Lady Bryan wasn't prepared to allow the King's daughter to die while she was in her care, knowing that it would mean serious trouble for her if that happened. "I hope that she will feel better soon."

"She'll be better when we're not on a ship any more." Elizabeth remarked shrewdly, heaving a sigh at the thought that, once her governess was feeling better, she was going to want to have Elizabeth stay with her so that she could watch over her and make sure that she was behaving herself and practicing her curtsey so that it would be perfect when she met King Francis. Lady Bryan would want to make sure that Elizabeth behaved properly so that her Mama and her Papa could see that she was doing a good job of teaching her how a princess should act and so they would know that Lady Bryan was still the right person to be her governess.

While she liked her governess and got on well enough with her, she liked her Mama better and she would much rather spend time with her than with Lady Bryan.

Anne reached out to stroke her daughter's hair gently. "Are you looking forward to seeing France, sweetheart?" She asked, tucking a lock of hair into Elizabeth's dainty cap. She gently tugged her daughter into her embrace, kissing her plump cheeks in turn and holding Elizabeth's small hands in hers, aware of the fact that, had things happened differently, they would not be together now.

Had things happened differently, she would be dead now and Elizabeth would be motherless, relegated to the ignoble role of the bastard daughter of a convicted traitor.

The thought of how easily her precious child might have been banished from the court until such time as Henry deigned to recognize that she was his daughter and entirely innocent of any crime filled Anne with indignation against her husband and his willingness to cast her and, worse still, their daughter, aside so that he could marry the brainless slut he fancied as his next wife.

"Yes, Mama." Elizabeth nodded solemnly. Lady Bryan had told her how important this visit was, and that it was a very great honour for her to be allowed to travel with her Mama and Papa to meet the King and Queen of France when she was so young. Because children her age weren't usually allowed to come on such important trips, it was very, very important that Elizabeth should behave herself properly, as a princess should, and that she remembered everything she was taught about polite behaviour. However, even though she had to practice her curtsey and her manners a lot, she was still looking forward to seeing where the King of France lived, since her Mama had once lived there, when she was younger, before she married Elizabeth's Papa.

"And the Duke of Angouleme is going to be there too." Anne told her. "So you can meet him."

"Will he play games with me?" Elizabeth asked. While she thought that it would be very exciting to see the palace in Paris, and to meet the King and Queen of France, they were grown-ups and they probably weren't going to be very good at playing games. The Duke of Angouleme was a child, like her, so she hoped that she would be able to play with him.

"Well..." Anne hesitated, wondering how she ought to respond to that. The Duke of Angouleme was older than Elizabeth, about nine years old, so she couldn't imagine that he would have much time for Elizabeth, who was more than six years his junior. However, the boy was her child's future husband, and she couldn't suggest that he wouldn't want to play with her, in case Elizabeth took offence at the idea that her betrothed didn't want to spend time with her. "He's going to have a lot of lessons with his tutors, my darling." She said at last. "He has to learn the things that a prince needs to do. I don't know how much time he's going to have for playing – but I'm sure that he's looking forward to meeting you and that he'll want to spend time with you if he can."

Elizabeth nodded, satisfied with this, before looking up at Mary. "Are you going to marry one of King Francis' other sons, Mary?" She asked curiously. She knew that the Duke of Angouleme was the youngest son in his family, and that he had two older brothers. One of those brothers already had a wife, and Elizabeth was going to get to meet her, as well as meeting the French princesses, who would be like her own sisters once she was married to their brother, but the other one didn't have a wife yet. She wondered if Mary was coming on the trip because she was going to marry that prince. She thought that, since her Papa had two daughters and King Francis had two sons who didn't have wives yet, it would be sensible if she and Mary both married one of the princes.

It would be fun for them all to live in France together sometimes.

Mary flushed, remembering that she was once promised to the Dauphin of France, once destined to become Queen of England and France one day. That was a long time ago, however, and things had changed so much since then. King Francis could hardly accept Elizabeth as a legitimate princess and the future bride of one son, and yet welcome Mary, whom he had implied was a bastard, as a wife for another son, nor could the Dauphin be allowed to marry a girl of lower status than his younger brother's bride. King Francis wasn't going to say that she was worthy to marry a prince when her father said that she was no princess, and other monarchs would follow his lead.

There would be no royal suitors approaching her father for her hand anytime soon.

"No, sister." Mary responded, trying to control her facial expressions and to keep herself from revealing her distress at the prospect of either spinsterhood for the rest of her life or else marriage to whatever petty noble her father decided to bribe into taking her as his wife, or to an ally of the Boleyn family who could be trusted not to press Mary's claim to the throne. She didn't want to allow Anne to see how she was feeling. She wouldn't let Anne see her cry for what she had lost.

She wasn't even sure which would be more difficult to bear; Anne's gloating or her sympathy.

"Then who are you going to marry?" Elizabeth pressed before her mother could hush her.

Mary felt her voice grow cold, despite her best efforts to keep it even. "If God wills it, the King, our father, will find a suitable husband for me, in good time." She responded sharply.

Young as she was, Elizabeth could sense the tension between her mother and her sister, and that the tension had something to do with what she had said, but she couldn't understand why her words would have upset Mary, or why they would make her Mama look so serious and sad. She reached out to touch her Mama's face to get her attention. "Did I say something bad, Mama?" She asked, feeling worried. She didn't want to make her Mama or Mary unhappy.

"No, sweetheart." Anne hastened to reassure her, taking Elizabeth onto her lap and holding her close, wishing that she had a way to explain things to her in a way she could understand.

Mary rose to her feet, curtseying deeply. "Excuse me, Your Majesty, Your Highness." She said formally, keeping her head lowered as she walked away from them.

"What did I say wrong, Mama?" Elizabeth asked Anne, distressed. "Why is Mary cross with me?"

"She's not cross with you, sweetheart, I promise." Anne stroked Elizabeth's hair, wanting to comfort her.

It wasn't fair that her child, who was innocent in this whole mess, should have to suffer distress because of what had happened with her parents so long ago... just as it was wrong that Mary should have had to suffer because her father fell out of love with her mother and wanted to take a new wife, Anne's conscience reminded her, prodding her mercilessly and reminding her that Mary had been an innocent casualty of the Great Matter that had allowed her to become Henry's wife and the little girl in her arms to be born a legitimate princess.

She needed to make things right with Mary too, and soon.

"Then why did she leave? Why didn't she stay with us?"

"It's complicated, my precious girl. Things happened, years ago, before you were born, and it's made things difficult for all of us, and for Mary too – especially for Mary." She amended. "It's not your fault, though," She added firmly, not wanting Elizabeth to blame herself. "None of this is your fault. It's something that I've got to try to fix, if I can – and your Papa too."

"But you will fix it, won't you?" Elizabeth asked, leaning closer to her mother and looking up at her with trusting blue eyes, showing her utter confidence in Anne's ability to fix everything that was wrong in her little world. To her child's eyes, her mother was all-powerful in this matter, Able to resolve Mary's predicament as easily as she could soothe away Elizabeth's tears and fears when she was hurt or frightened about something.

Anne kissed her daughter's cheek gently. "I'll try, sweetheart. I promise."

* * *

**_3rd August 1536_ **

In France, the Great Matter of the King of England had meant little to its citizens, though some of them were aware of the fact that, as the King of England was seeking the support of their monarch in his quest to annul his marriage, relations between the two countries were friendlier than usual, without the threat of war hanging over them should a quarrel break out between the two Kings.

While Anne's road to securing the affections of her husband's subjects had been a rocky one, and while they had rejected her in favour of Katherine, and rejected Elizabeth in favour of Mary for years before they could bring themselves to accept them, the people of France did not share the love or loyalty that the English people had cherished for Katherine, and for many, the Spanish were regarded as their natural enemies, even when the King's new wife was a Spanish princess by birth, the sister of the Emperor. They did not have any issue with the fact that the King of England had set his aging wife aside and taken a younger bride in her place, and they came out in their droves as the English party passed by, greeting them with warmth and enthusiasm.

By the time they reached Paris, word of their impending arrival was carried ahead of them and the streets were lined with people as Henry, Anne and their entourage passed into the city, making their way towards the palace of Fontainebleu, where King Francis and his family awaited them.

The courtyard outside the palace was filled with richly attired French courtiers and liveried soldiers. There were lavish flower arrangements everywhere, and a red carpet was spread out, ready for Henry and his family to walk on towards the wooden platform swathed in silk and cloth of gold, on which King Francis and Queen Eleanor were standing, flanked by the French royal children.

Henry escorted Anne towards the platform, with Elizabeth following just behind them, her hand in Lady Bryan's. A few paces behind Elizabeth, Mary walked in her assigned place in the procession, followed by the Boleyn men and then the nobles in order of precedence.

King Francis' smile was wide as he stepped forward to greet his guests and Henry felt a pang of resentment when he saw the other man's outfit and the jewels he wore with it, unable to deceive himself into thinking that his own carefully chosen outfit was finer, much as he would have liked for this to be the case. Although, at first glance, it might seem as though the King of France was more simply dressed than the King of England, Henry was shrewd enough to be able to see that everything the other man wore was made of the finest materials money could buy, designed and sewn by the most skilled tailors his country could offer, while the pieces of jewellery he wore were regally elegant, making Henry's flashier attire seem tawdry by comparison.

He stole a glance at Anne and felt pleased to see that, even if some might make the mistake of deeming Francis to be a handsomer man than he was because of his attire, all the finery in the world couldn't disguise the fact that Queen Eleanor was a plain woman, one who could never hope to outshine Anne, who was a true beauty and who knew well how to dress so that she could emphasize her best features and use her striking colouring to her advantage.

Seeing her, Francis must surely feel disgruntled to think that, while Henry had been able to choose his wife, he had had to agree to take the Emperor's dour sister as a wife for the sake of peace.

Henry plastered a wide smile on his face as he came closer the platform and his fellow monarch, the man who had been his rival for so long. He tucked Anne's hand more firmly in the crook of his elbow, pleased to see that she too was smiling pleasantly as they approached the French royal family, behaving just as a Queen ought to behave. As they came closer, King Francis and Queen Eleanor began to walk towards them, followed by the French princes and princesses, so that the two royal families met in front of the platform, standing face to face as equals.

Francis was the first to step forward, his smile wide as he reached out his hand to take Henry's, clasping it in his before kissing him on both cheeks. "My dear brother!" He spoke loudly, his friendly greeting intended not just for Henry's ears or those of his party but for everybody in the courtyard. "Welcome to Fontainebleu!" He declared magnanimously, indicating his magnificent palace with a proud sweep of his hand, a gesture that betrayed his confidence that Henry would be impressed by his rival's residence, despite himself, and that he had nothing to compare with it.

For the sake of diplomacy, Henry could swallow his irritation and return the other man's smile. "Thank you for your kind invitation, dear brother." He responded, infusing his tone with all of the friendliness and warmth that he could muster. "We are so pleased to be here – are we not, my Queen?" He asked Anne, seeing her nod. He turned back to Francis. "May I present my wife, Queen Anne?" He introduced her, drawing her forward and placing her hand in Francis' so that the other man could bring it to his lips for a kiss.

"It is an honour, Your Majesty." Francis said, this time speaking with genuine warmth and laying a gentle but unmistakeable stress on the words 'Your Majesty', making it plain that he was welcoming her to his palace as a Queen. As he kissed her hand, Anne could see that his eyes were softened by compassion and concern, and she was touched by that. When he kissed her cheek, she returned the gesture in kind, favouring him with a dazzling smile that would have enchanted any man. "I am so pleased that you could come to visit us here." He told her kindly.

"Thank you, Your Majesty." Anne dipped a shallow curtsey in response to his greeting.

"I don't believe that you have met my wife, Queen Eleanor." Francis said, turning to his own wife so that she could be presented in her turn. "Madame, it is my pleasure to present to you my dear brother, the King of England, and his beautiful wife, Queen Anne." He introduced, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. He knew well that his wife would be far from pleased to have to welcome Anne Boleyn to their palace as a fellow Queen but it was his wish that she should do so, and she needed to learn that, even if she was the Emperor's sister, she had to obey her husband.

He would tolerate nothing else.

"It is a pleasure and an honour to meet you at last, Your Majesties." Queen Eleanor's words were perfectly correct and, if her tone was cool rather than welcoming, they all pretended not to notice it. Whether or not she had wanted to greet Anne as her equal, whether or not she felt friendly towards her or to Henry, all that really mattered was that she greeted her as etiquette demanded. That was enough, at least for the time being. They had plenty of time to build on this.

Henry took the opportunity to draw Elizabeth forward so that she could be presented to King Francis and Queen Eleanor, wanting _his_ daughter to be the first royal child presented, before Francis could bring his three sons forward in turn, knowing that Henry had no son of his own to introduce, and that he would be set at a disadvantage in that respect. "Your Majesties, I would like to present to you the jewel of all England; my beautiful daughter, the Princess Elizabeth, Princess Royal and Duchess of York." He announced proudly, smiling down at Elizabeth as she made a graceful curtsey to King Francis and Queen Eleanor, greeting them in pretty French.

He might have had his concerns about bringing such a young child on an important state visit, fearing that a little girl under three years might say or do something amiss, but Elizabeth's poise proved that he need not have worried about how she would behave herself.

King Francis smiled widely at the little girl as he knelt down to her level, kissing her tiny hand. "I am very pleased to meet you, Your Highness." He greeted her with grave politeness.

"I am pleased to meet you too, Your Majesty." Elizabeth responded brightly, looking at her surroundings with an approving eye. "Your palace is very beautiful, like my Mama said it was." She told him, thinking that it was even lovelier than her Papa's palace at Whitehall, though she didn't say so out loud, not wanting to hurt Papa's feelings by saying that his palace wasn't as nice as King Francis'. He wouldn't like to hear that another palace was better than his was. She couldn't wait until she could go inside the palace, feeling sure that she would be able to coax Lady Bryan to take her on a walk around it, so she could see it properly. It must be very, very pretty inside.

When she was a grown lady, and married to the Duke of Angouleme, she was sure that it would be a lot of fun for them to come to visit his family at this beautiful palace.

For Francis, compliments from ladies – even very young ones – were always welcome, and he was particularly proud of the improvements he had made to Fontainebleu, on whom he had lavished a great deal of time, energy and money, enticing the best artists in Europe to come to France so that their works might adorn his palace. "Thank you, Princess." He motioned for the youngest of the three boys behind him to step forward, and he placed a hand on his shoulder. "This is my son, Charles, Your Highness – your future husband. Charles, this is the Princess Elizabeth, your future bride." He told his son jovially. "You are a lucky boy, Charles. She's a true beauty!"

"Yes, Father." Charles said, bowing to Elizabeth and doffing his hat with a flourish before paying his respects to Henry and Anne, both of whom greeted him warmly, happy to meet their future son-in-law and to see that the boy who was destined to be their daughter's future husband was good looking and seemed to be a bright and healthy boy. Both of them were aware that this boy might be the father of the future Tudor heirs and they wanted to know that their daughter would marry a good-looking, intelligent boy with a nice nature. "I am pleased to meet you, Princess."

"Thank you." Elizabeth gave him a dimpled smile and a curtsey, glancing behind him at the two boys and three girls who stood, waiting for their turns to be brought forward and presented to the guests. "Are they your brothers and sisters?" She asked Charles curiously, thinking that he was very lucky to have so many brothers and sisters. She only had the Lady Mary and, while she loved her older sister, she would have liked to have brothers and sisters who were close to her own age, young enough to be her playmates, and she especially wanted a brother to play with. Lady Bryan always used to tell her that she should pray for her Mama to give her a baby brother but Elizabeth thought that it would be even nicer to have a brother who was older than she was.

When she married Charles, his brothers and sisters would be her brothers and sisters too, since her husband's family would become her family in God's eyes, and even if they were all older than she was, Elizabeth thought that it would be fun to be part of a big family.

"Yes, Princess." Charles told her. His tutor had told him that it was for his father to present the royal children in turn, so he couldn't tell her their names, or that one girl wasn't his sister.

Francis beamed, delighted to have the opening to introduce his other children. Although his rivalry with Henry was, for the most part, good-natured on his side, he still enjoyed knowing that, while Henry might try to rival him where armies, navies, horses, clothing, jewels and palaces were concerned, the one area where he would have wanted to succeed, more than any other, was where their offspring were concerned. Francis' first two children had been daughters who did not survive their childhoods but he had made up for it since, and now, in addition to two pretty daughters, he could boast three fine sons – and he knew well that his fellow monarch would have given his eye teeth for just one. He inclined his head slightly in Henry and Anne's direction.

"Your Majesties, you have done me the great honour of presenting your beautiful daughter to me," he began graciously, "now I would like to introduce you to the rest of my family." As they had rehearsed, the Dauphin was the first to step forward, bowing deeply to Henry and Anne and kissing Anne's hand when she extended it to him. "My eldest son, the Dauphin of France." He introduced, patting the boy's shoulder lightly and smiling at the sight of Henry's tight smile as he shook his hand and greeted him politely. As soon as the Dauphin stepped aside, the middle brother came forward, escorting one of the girls on his arm, though the young couple did not look at one another as they walked. "The Duke of Orleans, and his wife, Catherine."

"Catherine de Medici, I believe." Henry remarked as he kissed the girl's hand, noting that she was quite a plain thing, particularly compared with the pretty French ladies who were present, watching the two royal families meet. He had heard that the young Duke already had a mistress and, looking at his Duchess, he was far from surprised by this. If the niece of Pope Clement felt put out at the thought of having to pay her respects to the King who had defied her uncle, and to the woman Clement had insisted was the King of England's mistress rather than his wife, she gave no sign of it as she made her curtsies to Henry, Anne and little Elizabeth in turn. "Madame." He inclined his head politely before she stepped aside, to allow her sisters-in-law to come forward.

"And finally, the Princesses of France – _Mesdames Madeline et Marguerite_." Francis concluded the introductions by motioning for his two daughters to come forward.

Princesses Madeline and Marguerite were both pretty girls, aged sixteen and thirteen. They were dressed in matching gowns of cornflower blue silk and they moved in perfect unison as they stepped forward and swept deep, graceful curtsies to their guests, murmuring their greetings.

"Charming." Henry murmured. He knew that he ought to present Mary to King Francis, given that he had made it clear that she was travelling to France as his daughter, as an honoured member of his family rather than as an attendant of Anne or Elizabeth, and that he expected her to be treated with respect and honour by the French court, but he felt awkward to have to present Mary as his natural daughter when Francis and his court must surely be able to remember that he had once come to France and presented his daughter as Princess Mary, the heir to his throne.

He firmly quashed those thoughts; he could not be blamed if, thanks to the errors of the Bishop of Rome, he was led to believe that his marriage to his brother's widow could be rendered sinless with a papal dispensation and that a child born of that union could be considered legitimate. He had amended his past mistake and now he was bringing Mary to France in her true station, as his natural daughter, a girl to be treated with honour even if she did not enjoy the same status to which Elizabeth and the French princesses were born.

Mary did not need to feel shame at being the natural daughter of a King and he certainly had nothing to be ashamed of or sorry for where his elder daughter was concerned.

He would not pretend that he did.

When he motioned for Mary to step forward, he could see from her slight hesitation that she was reluctant to comply but she obeyed, sweeping a deeper curtsey to King Francis and Queen Eleanor than Elizabeth had, and than the French princesses had to Henry and Anne.

"This is my daughter, the Lady Mary." He said, thinking a simple introduction would serve best.

Mary could feel her heart thudding rapidly in her chest as she rose from her curtsey, unsure of the reception she could expect. She knew better than to think that King Francis would openly contradict her father by according her the title of Princess or by treating her with the same affectionate courtesy that he had Elizabeth, and even Queen Eleanor would not dare to indicate that she believed Mary to be legitimate, despite the fact that her brother the Emperor had spent years defending her right to the title of Princess, but would they greet her or just ignore her?

While she cared little about whether or not King Francis actually _liked_ her, it would be humiliating for her to have to stand before him while he behaved as though she had no right to expect a civil word from him, much less the courtesy of a welcome, showing those present, along with those who would hear of this meeting, that he scorned her as a common bastard.

"Your Majesties." Her voice was steadier than she thought it would be.

King Francis' smile was a polite one rather than a friendly one. While he would never have behaved with open discourtesy towards a guest, much less a lady, he was conscious of the need to emphasize that he did not view Mary as equal in status to her sister or his daughters and he also couldn't feel particular warmth for a cousin of the Emperor. " _Madame Marie_." He greeted her in French rather than English. "I am pleased to welcome any child of my brother, the King of England, to my country and to my home. I hope that you will enjoy your stay here."

"Thank you, Your Majesty." Mary was pleased to be able to step back.

She hadn't liked King Francis much when she was a child and met him for the first time and she liked him no better now. She might not approve of all that her father had done, particularly where his Great Matter and his treatment of herself and of her beloved mother was concerned, but at least he tried to do what he thought was right, what he thought God wanted him to do, while she knew that King Francis was a man who would be guided by expedience and his own desires.

Francis offered his arm to Anne next, leaving Henry to conduct Queen Eleanor inside. "Queen Anne," his voice was kind as he spoke to her, "allow me to welcome you back to Fontainebleu." He said. Taking her smile for assent, he led the way through the parting sea of courtiers to the grand entrance of his palace, knowing without looking behind him that the rest of the party would follow behind them, leaving the courtyard and the curious onlookers for the palace.

* * *

Although King Francis' household had done a remarkable job preparing for the welcoming banquet that evening, seeing to it that the banqueting hall was lavishly decorated and that the tables were laden with the finest dishes, both French and English, and although his host was treating him with marked courtesy, making a point of showing him brotherly affection and proclaiming his friendship for him, Henry found that he couldn't enjoy the banquet, and it was a strain for him to keep his smile plastered on his face so that the courtiers sitting at the rows of tables in front of him would not see that he was uncomfortable and wanted nothing more than to be able to leave the banqueting hall and retreat to the suite assigned to him.

He said all of the right things, of course, returning Francis' assurances of friendship and fraternal love in kind, and he made sure to taste each of the rich dishes presented to him and to compliment both the food and the wine, knowing that he should be pleased to see that Francis had done him the honour of laying on his best for the visit. However, his words of friendship were spoken by rote, without him paying any real attention to what he was saying, and even less attention to what Francis was saying to him, and he took no enjoyment from either the food or the wine, eating little and drinking less and wishing that Francis had not seen fit to order that quite so many courses should be served to them.

He was sitting between King Francis and Queen Eleanor, with Anne sitting on Francis' other side, with Elizabeth and the Duke of Angouleme just beyond her.

Although the French royal children were all seated at the top table on the dais, Henry had known that it would not be fitting for his illegitimate daughter to be treated as legitimate royal children were but, at the same time, he still wanted for Mary to be accorded honours on par with a senior noble, in recognition of her royal blood, so she was seated at the head of the table directly below the top table, a place that had her positioned so that Henry could watch her as she ate.

She was exchanging polite conversation with the French count sitting next to her, and sampling everything on the plate in front of her, complimenting the food and the wine every time she was asked if they were to her liking but, like Henry, she didn't seem to be enjoying herself.

Francis didn't seem to share Henry's discomfort. He was in good spirits as he conversed with Anne in rapid French, both of them seeming to get along well with one another. With Francis entertaining Anne, Henry was left to speak to Queen Eleanor but he had little to say to the Emperor's sister, and Queen Eleanor seemed just as uninterested in speaking to him, and neither of Francis' elder sons were in the mood to converse with him – though Henry was pleased to see that Elizabeth and the Duke of Angouleme were getting along quite well, with the youngest French prince listening patiently as Elizabeth described her journey to France, and telling her stories about the mischief that he and his siblings got up to, making her laugh.

Watching the two children, Henry consoled himself with the knowledge that, whatever else might happen, the visit was a success in at least one regard. Royal marriages were arranged with alliances in mind rather than the compatibility of the bride and groom and it was the duty of princes and princesses to repay their fathers and their countries for their honoured position and luxurious lives by making the match that best suited the interests of their country and their people but Henry was still pleased to see that Elizabeth and young Charles seemed to like one another.

It would bode well for their marriage if they could be friends, at the very least.

It was a relief to him when the banquet ended and Francis gave the order that the tables should be cleared away so that they could dance but Henry's joy was short-lived when Francis brightly suggested that he should lead Anne out in the first dance while Henry took Queen Eleanor, instead of having both monarchs dance with their respective spouses.

While he had been able to listen to snatches of their conversation when they were sitting next to him at the table, and knew that they had not been talking about him and that Anne was not complaining to Francis about the way he had treated her or mocking him in any way, he would have no such assurance when they were dancing together and he was occupied with Queen Eleanor. They would be able to move too far away from him for him to hear their words.

His thoughts tormented him as he went through the motions of leading Queen Eleanor in the galliard, scarcely paying any attention to his steps or to those of his dancing partner, who did not seem to be especially well practiced in this dance.

"Ow!" Queen Eleanor exclaimed involuntarily when Henry trod heavily on her foot, drawing a cry of pain from her before she could stifle it to avoid causing him offence or attracting attention. She quickly forced a smile to her face but she couldn't hide the pain in her eyes, or her slight limp.

"My apologies, madame." Henry apologized automatically, feeling his cheeks heat up and knowing that they would be visibly red now, letting everybody who could see him know that he was embarrassed over his clumsiness. Even little Elizabeth and the Duke of Angouleme were able to manage the dance without any humiliating mistakes, their performance charming those who watched them, but Henry wasn't able to manage even that much!

To add to his discomfort, he could see that Anne and Francis' dancing was flawlessly graceful, though they both made it look effortless, drawing ripples of admiring applause as they circled the room in perfect time with the music. Once the dance concluded, Henry bowed to Eleanor and conducted her back to her chair on the dais, intending to lead Anne out in the next dance but, when he looked around the dancing area for her, she and Francis were gone. He scanned the hall in search of them, catching sight of them sitting in one of the alcoves, conversing together.

He would have gone over to them and interrupted whatever they were talking about but Elizabeth ran over to him, tugging the Duke of Angouleme after her.

"Dance with me, Papa?" She asked, taking his hand in hers before he could refuse her request and promise to dance with her later. "You can dance with my sister, the Lady Mary." She told the Duke of Angouleme, who smiled and nodded his agreement good-naturedly, clearly happy to humour his little betrothed, whatever she asked of him. "Thank you, Charles." She beamed at him as he made his way to Mary's side, bowing to her before asking her to dance with him.

She wanted Mary to have fun and she wouldn't have fun if nobody asked her to dance.

Despite the fact that he wanted to go after Anne and take her away from King Francis before she could say something to him that Henry would not want his rival to know about, he couldn't bring himself to disappoint little Elizabeth by refusing her request for a dance. He could imagine how much King Francis would enjoy hearing about his marital difficulties, not to mention the way in which he had been duped by his chancellor and his dear friend into putting his own wife on trial for a crime she had not committed but he could deal with it later. His daughter was more important.

Sweeping Elizabeth up into his arms and holding her hand in his as she laid her hand on his shoulder, he began to twirl around the room with her, in motion to the music, trying not to think about what Anne might be saying to Francis while the two of them were alone together, when he wouldn't be able to counter any of her allegations or offer a defence for his part in the affair.

He could worry about whatever it was she said later.

In the alcove, Francis was speaking to Anne in a low voice, glad of the opportunity to speak with her alone and knowing that he might not get another chance to talk her without Henry or somebody else within earshot. What he had to say to her, he didn't want her husband to hear.

Like many in Europe, including some whose opinion of Anne was far from complimentary and who might otherwise have been content to see her fall from grace, he was shocked when he learned that she had been arrested for adultery and treason, and even more astonished and appalled when his ambassador reluctantly reported that it was widely accepted that the Queen of England was going to be found guilty of the charges laid against her, despite the fact that what little evidence was presented against her was nonsensical in the extreme. His ambassador had had to smuggle the news to him through agents in England, who were able to convey the message to Francis, despite the fact that Henry and his Lord Chancellor had tried their utmost to ensure that no word of what was happening would be allowed to spread outside England before Anne's execution.

The prospect of an anointed Queen, even a Queen that not everybody was willing to accept as such, was one that had shocked the world and Master Cromwell had wanted it kept quiet.

He might have been able to prevent it.

His ambassador in the English court sent him regular reports, letting him know that an increasing number of the English courtiers had accepted that Anne's position was weakening since the death of Katherine of Aragon rather than being strengthened, as Francis had expected and hoped would be the case. Rather than taking the opportunity to capitalize on Katherine's death in order to bolster his Queen's position, Henry's behaviour was giving her enemies cause to believe that, now that Katherine was dead and the annulment of his marriage to Anne would not oblige him to take her back as his wife, he wished to set Anne aside in order to take another lady as his wife and it was this lady and her family that the English courtiers were flocking to now, not the Boleyns.

From what little his ambassador was able to learn about Mistress Jane Seymour and her family, they were staunch supporters of the Lady Mary – though, like most courtiers, they had taken the Oath of Succession promising to support Princess Elizabeth's claim to the throne when they were called upon to do so and were careful not to be too open about their belief in Mary's legitimacy – and they also favoured an alliance with the Emperor instead of one with France.

He certainly had little cause to wish to see England's next Queen championing an alliance with the Spanish, much less the restoration of the half-Spanish Lady Mary but King Francis had still been reluctant to commit himself more decisively to Anne's cause, either by formally acknowledging her marriage to Henry or agreeing to the betrothal of her daughter to one of his sons, half-afraid that if he did, it would push Henry more firmly into the Emperor's camp if he truly was determined to set Anne aside, in which case he would wish for an ally who would accept his new wife.

Francis didn't doubt that the Emperor would be willing to welcome any Queen of England who showed herself willing to speak for his cousin and to work to bring her back into the King's good graces, and he was sure that it would not have troubled the Emperor unduly when he heard that Anne had been arrested and was likely to die, even though any fool could see that she was innocent – the Emperor Charles had never been a true knight, the kind of knight that Francis wished to be, so he wouldn't have trouble with the death of a lady if it served his purpose.

Not that Francis had proved himself to be any different to the Emperor when the opportunity to be a true knight arose...

When he received his ambassador's missive, describing Anne's plea for French aid and her fears that she was in danger, fears that she dared not commit to writing, in case her letter fell into the hands of one of her many enemies and was used against her, something that was undoubtedly a definite possibility, one that she was absolutely right to fear, Francis had decided against responding to her plea to agree to the betrothal of his youngest son and Princess Elizabeth, thereby showing her husband that at least one of his fellow monarchs considered Anne to be England's true and rightful Queen, and young Elizabeth his legitimate heir.

Had he agreed to come to her aid, had he shown that Anne had a friend in the King of France, might it have given her enemies pause? Might it have helped ensure that Henry would think twice about setting aside the wife for whom he had fought so long and sacrificed so much? Might Master Cromwell have thought that, while he might have deemed an alliance with the Emperor – an alliance that would have been difficult, at best, to achieve as long as Anne remained Queen and the Emperor's cousin was nothing but a bastard – to be in the interests of England, an alliance with France could be just as valuable, if not more so.

As it was, he did nothing and Anne almost died.

"Madame," his voice was gentle and low as he spoke to her, leaning his head towards hers so that she would be able to hear his softly spoken words without him having to raise his voice. "I have heard of your troubles in England in May," he began, knowing that there was probably no diplomatic way to broach such an issue, "and I wanted to tell you how relieved I am to see that it was resolved and that you are safe." He told her, knowing that he was speaking the truth.

Not only was he relieved to know that England's Queen was a friend to France and, as such, a potentially valuable ally, he was also glad to see that the young woman who had spent her girlhood as an ornament of his court was safe and well. It would have been a waste of a beautiful, charming and intelligent woman if she had been executed.

He didn't think much of Henry's tastes when it came to the woman he had chosen as Anne's successor; his ambassador had described Mistress Seymour as prim and sly, far more ambitious than she let on and able to conceal that side of her nature beneath a facade of maidenly modesty and affectionate sweetness, presenting herself as a mild demure alternative to Anne. She was pretty enough but not educated or sophisticated by any means. Compared to Anne, and even to Katherine of Aragon, who was an intelligent and well-educated woman, she was nothing.

Anne nodded warily in response to his words. "Your Majesty is very kind." She said, surprised that he had broached the issue of her arrest so openly and wondering what Francis expected from her.

Francis lowered his voice even more before continuing, leaning closer to her. "I know that you are restored to your place as Queen, and that King Henry is seeing to it that your daughter, the Princess Elizabeth, is recognized as his heiress – a goal that I am happy to support him in," he added, thinking that, if the lady by his side did not bear a prince, he would be more than pleased to see his youngest son rule England by Elizabeth's side as her consort, "but I would like you to know that, should you ever need my help, in anything, I want you to know that you only need to ask. I give you my word that I will not let you down this time, you or your daughter." He vowed solemnly, taking one of her slim hands and holding it between both his hands.

Anne was silent for several moments, wondering what she ought to say in response to that, or if he even expected her to say something in response. She studied his expression carefully, trying to see if he was being sincere in his promise or if he would disregard the pledge he had just made to her as soon as she or Elizabeth actually stood in need of his assistance. When she looked into his eyes, however, she could see the sympathy and sincerity shining in them. He meant what he was saying – or at least believed that he did. "Thank you." She said at last.

She believed that her father was right that she and Elizabeth could count themselves safe now, as Henry could not dare to set them aside without reprisals from his people, who would never tolerate it if he tried to dissolve their marriage and take another woman as his wife, but it was still good to know that, if a time came when she and Elizabeth needed help, they would have it.

The Emperor would certainly think twice about moving against Elizabeth in years to come if he knew that she would have the backing of the King of France, her prospective father-in-law.

A giggle from Elizabeth herself drew their attention to the centre of the room, where the little girl was laughing as her father twirled her around in the air, faster and higher than any of the other men twirled their partners, before the music ended and he set her down on her feet, bowing deeply to her. Elizabeth curtsied gracefully in response, slipping her tiny hand in his.

"Such an enchanting child." Francis said with a smile, kissing Anne's hand. "And, if memory serves, she is very like you, madame, when you first came to France." He remarked. As the companion of his young sister-in-law, later one of the maids of honour tending to his first wife, Anne would probably never have attracted his notice, at least not until she was older, if not for the fact that his elder sister had taken a fancy to the intelligent little girl and taken her under her wing.

He said a silent prayer of thanksgiving that his future daughter-in-law seemed to have much of her mother in her to balance the Tudor traits she had inherited from her father's line.

He would not like to think of young Charles married to a hot-tempered wife who might turn on him and, like most people in Europe, he had heard the speculation that had run rampant when Princess Margaret, Henry's sister, became the widow of the King of Portugal mere days after she had become his bride and was one of those who entertained the possibility that the King's death might have been no coincidence – it could not have been pleasing for a young woman to find herself married to a man old enough to be her grandfather, after all.

However, Elizabeth looked like a sweet child, one who would grow to be a lovely woman, and he could be confident that she and Charles would do well.

He rose when he saw that, instead of joining in the next dance as the music began once more, Henry was on his way over to them, holding Elizabeth by the hand. Although, even from a distance, Francis could see that the other monarch was making an effort to keep his expression pleasant, Henry couldn't keep his brow from furrowing in a scowl as he came closer to them. He inclined his head to Francis and Anne once he and Elizabeth reached them, releasing Elizabeth's hand so that she could make her curtsey to Francis.

"I want to thank you for the wonderful reception you have given to my Queen and myself, _mon frere_. Your generous hospitality is greatly appreciated." Henry said in as friendly a tone as he could manage, watching as Elizabeth ran over to Anne, who lifted their daughter onto her lap and hugged her. Elizabeth snuggled into Anne's embrace, yawning. "Elizabeth is tired, my dear." He told her. Fortunately, after a big meal followed by dancing, Elizabeth was too tired to contradict him. "Perhaps it is time for her to go to bed."

"Will you put me to bed, Mama?" Elizabeth asked, putting her arms around Anne's neck. "I want you, not Lady Bryan. Please?" She cast an appealing look at her mother, knowing that she would want to please her. Elizabeth always tried to be brave, as a King's daughter should be, but this was her first night sleeping in the King of France's palace and she would be happier if she could have Mama put her to bed and kiss her goodnight. It wasn't the same with Lady Bryan.

"Of course, sweetheart." Anne agreed readily, standing up. With Elizabeth balanced on her hip, she couldn't curtsey as she withdrew from her husband and their host but she leaned forward to allow the latter to kiss her cheek. "Please excuse me, Your Majesty."

Francis nodded, giving her a friendly smile and reaching out to chuck Elizabeth under the chin before motioning for a liveried servant to approach, issuing rapid orders in French that he was to conduct them to their rooms and see to it that they had everything they needed. "I gave my chamberlain orders to see to it that Princess Elizabeth's suite of rooms was next to yours, madame." He told Anne. " _Madame Marie_ 's chamber, and the rooms for your ladies and the Princess', are nearby. If there is anything that you or your party needs, you need only ask."

"Thank you." Anne replied before turning and carrying Elizabeth away.

With the Queen and Princess of England leaving the banquet, etiquette demanded that their ladies should accompany them and Henry noticed that, as they left, other ladies belonging to the English party also withdrew, including his elder daughter, who seized the opportunity to hasten away.

Once he and Francis were alone, Henry was discomfited to find himself tongue-tied. He wanted to demand to know what Anne had said to Francis, and what he had said to her but he knew that he couldn't. Much as he hated to be beholden to any man, least of all Francis, he had to acknowledge that the other monarch's support was likely to prove invaluable in the future, far too valuable for him to risk losing it by interrogating him.

Francis was the one who broke the silence. "Your elder daughter has become an attractive young woman." He remarked, his gaze directed at the door through which Mary had exited. "I'll wager that you are having a difficult time deciding which of the English lords she will wed." His tone might have been light but the comment was intended as a means of probing the situation. If his son was going to marry Elizabeth, then it would suit Francis to know that Mary was to be married off to an ordinary English lord as soon as possible, before her father could take it into his head to seek a grander match for the girl, finding her a royal husband, one whose support might allow her to rival her younger sister as heir to the throne in years to come.

"There will be plenty of time to worry about that later." Henry said gruffly, determinedly ignoring the fact that, at seventeen, Mary was of an age to marry. He might once have chided Anne for worrying so much about the marriage prospects of their daughter ahead of those of her much older half-sister but he was not about to let Francis goad him into rushing into any decision.

"Of course." Francis agreed easily, pleased to see that, even if she was not to be hastily married off to a suitor she would undoubtedly consider too humble to be worthy of a King's daughter, Mary's marriage was not Henry's primary concern. It would be better for his son if she remained unmarried for as long as possible. He regarded the other man for a few moments before an imp of mischief seized hold of him. "Your apartment is in a different wing to Queen Anne's." He remarked innocently, winking as though he and Henry were co-conspirators.

Henry stared at him. "Is it?" He asked, wondering why Francis was telling him this. Although he and Anne had occupied adjoining suites when they travelled to Calais almost four years ago, that was before they were married and, as a rule, visiting royal couples were offered separate accommodation, especially as so many royal marriages were arranged with no thought to the compatibility of the couple, who would naturally prefer to be able to avail of privacy.

"Under the circumstances, I thought that it might be best." Francis said in a pointed tone, amused to see the flush of embarrassment on Henry's face at the implication. In his opinion, Henry was a man who could benefit from a dose of embarrassment and humility. Few men in their position enjoyed the luxury of choosing their wives instead of having a suitable princess selected for them, whether they liked it or not, so if Henry was foolish enough to try to cast aside his wife after fighting so long to have her, not to mention employing such a despicable means in order to end their marriage, Francis believed that he deserved to be mocked.

Henry swallowed an angry retort before his tongue could speak it. "Did you?" He asked in as mild and even a tone as he could manage, wishing that he had taken the opportunity to leave the celebration when his wife and daughter did, pleading a wish to bid Elizabeth goodnight.

If Francis had left it there, Henry might have been able to recover his temper and force himself to think that the other man had simply anticipated his wish, perhaps telling himself that Francis had taken the precaution of seeing to it that his quarters were set apart from Anne's because he assumed that one of the ladies in the English party was Henry's mistress, a beauty with whom he would want to spend time without his wife being close enough to overhear them.

However, Francis could not leave it, not now.

He clapped a hand on Henry's shoulder but the gesture did not seem as friendly as he would have liked it to appear. He leaned closer to Henry, until their heads were almost touching, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "If you like, _mon frere_ , I am sure that I can arrange for a suitably pretty woman to warm your bed for the night." He suggested with a light chuckle. "I cannot imagine that your lovely wife will wish to share your bed tonight."

Henry's scowl was a black one, his anger contorting his handsome face and filling his blue eyes with cold fire. "Why would you say that, brother?" He spat the last word at the other man, furious with Francis for daring to allude to such a thing, and with Anne, whose words must have been the inspiration for the remark. "What has she been telling you?"

"She did not say anything..." Francis, realizing that his jest might have serious consequences for the lady to whom he had pledged his protection, did his best to back peddle but it was no use.

"My marriage is nobody's business but my own!" Henry snapped, too angry to think to lower his voice so that the others in the hall would not be able to hear him. "Stay away from my wife!"

He stormed out of the hall, stopping only to demand that the first servant he encountered show him to Anne's suite. He had allowed her to ignore him for far too long, and it was past time that he straightened things out with her, once and for all. He wouldn't have her treating him coldly and punishing him any more and he wouldn't have her humiliating him before others.

Enough was enough!


	19. Chapter 19

**_3rd August 1536_ **

As he stormed out of the Great Hall, Henry could hear the murmurs of astonishment at the strange behaviour of the King, as well as the sound of running footsteps hurrying after him. He did not need to look behind him to know that Knivert was hastening after him. Even before his friend called out to him, pleading with him to wait, he knew that Knivert was trying to keep him from rushing into a confrontation with Anne, a confrontation that he feared would only serve to make matters worse, but Henry was beyond caring about that now.

Anne had pushed him too far.

He was not an unfair man, he told himself as he stalked off after his wife, pausing only to demand of a serving man in Francis' livery where the Queen of England and Princess Royal were lodged.

He had freely accepted that he had wronged Anne by believing the allegations made against her without either examining the evidence Cromwell procured against her for himself, so that he could be sure the charges were just, and by refusing to speak to her about them, so that she could answer the charges to his face and defend herself against them. He was trying to make amends for that, even if he had not yet been able to voice the apology little Elizabeth advocated.

He had shown Anne every kindness since he rescued her from the Tower and brought her back to court, and done everything in his power to show that he knew her to be innocent of the charges laid against her, showing the court and the common people that he sided with Anne in this matter, not her accusers. He could have left her to face the executioner's sword, could have decided that her life would be a necessary price to pay for his freedom to remarry and have a son but he put her first. He treated her with honour and respect as his wife and Queen, punishing those who would have seen her dead and dismissing people he knew to be her enemies from court.

He would have been within his rights to have Jane Seymour remain at court, if he wished for her company. There was no man who could say otherwise. Whatever Anne might think, she had no right to demand that he should forsake the company of anybody with whom he wished to spend time, even if she was jealous of his affection for them, even if she wanted to have him to herself.

Nobody had the right to criticize the King's behaviour in his personal life.

He could have installed Jane in a comfortable apartment as his mistress, sharing her company when Anne refused to give him hers, or he might even have decided to allow Jane and her sisters to remain as ladies-in-waiting in the Queen's household after he brought Anne back to the palace and reinstated her as his Queen – he was the one who had commanded that they should come to court in that capacity, after all, so he would have been justified if he had decided that, despite everything, he would keep his word and allow them to retain their positions in Anne's household and all of the benefits the placement would bring them, obliging Anne to accept their service, no matter how she felt about it, whether or not she wanted the Seymour sisters near her.

He did not deny that it had hurt him deeply to learn that Jane was not what she seemed, that instead of being the dear, sweet, pure maiden he had believed her to be, an unambitious soul who loved him for himself without thinking of the advantages he could bring to her and her kin if she could win his love and marry him, and the loving lady who was so willing to reach out to the Lady Mary and, he was sure, to little Elizabeth, and welcome them into the bosom of the royal family for no other reason than that she wished to be kind to Henry's motherless daughters and to please him by bringing his family back together, she was a ruthless, ambitious creature who was happy to resort to whatever means were necessary to secure her ends, even if that meant remaining silent and allowing her predecessor to be unjustly executed so that she might take her place.

However, it was mostly for Anne's sake that he had sent Jane away, Henry told himself as he stormed through the corridors leading to the wing where Anne, Elizabeth and their retinues were housed. He knew how much it would have distressed her to have to have Jane and the Seymours at their court, knowing that if they had had their way, Anne would be dead and Jane would be Queen by now and that their resentment towards her for her restoration would be bitter. In order to spare her that pain, he had banished every Seymour from his sight.

Overnight, one of the more prominent families at his court were disgraced and banished to their country manor, leaving his court even poorer than they were when they entered it instead of benefiting from their time in his favour, winning prominent posts at court or being awarded land grants and lucrative stewardships, as they must have hoped they would, for Anne's sake.

He knew that Anne was upset to think that Elizabeth might have been declared a bastard after her execution and, in order to soothe her fears, he had made it plain to his court and his kingdom that he regarded Elizabeth as the legitimate heiress to the throne. He had humbled Mary before his whole court by bringing her there in her capacity as Elizabeth's servant, stripping her of every privilege afforded to her as the King's daughter, every small comfort he had allowed her because he knew that Jane wished to see him treat Mary kindly and because he wanted to please the woman he believed would soon be his daughter's stepmother, showing her that he was minded to treat Mary well if she would only give up her stubbornness, and refusing even to see her until she submitted and acknowledged that her little half-sister was the true Princess of England.

Anne didn't seem to care that it had hurt him to have to behave so coldly to Mary, the daughter he had cherished as the pearl of his world and whom he badly wanted to welcome back as his daughter, especially when Mary had lost her mother and needed his fatherly love and protection.

He had lavished Elizabeth with titles and honours that were never before granted to an English Princess, even though he had not lost all hope that he would have a son to supplant her as heir, because he believed that Knivert was right when he said that Anne needed to see proof that Elizabeth's place as his heiress was safe and that words alone would not persuade her of this.

He didn't regret giving Elizabeth her titles as Princess Royal and Duchess of York; it was important that he make it clear which of his daughters was his true heir, especially when Anne's arrest had led to rampant speculation about whether he would choose to restore Mary and disinherit Elizabeth now that the mother of the latter had lost her place in his heart and the lady who seemed certain to replace her was known to want to see Mary brought back to court and restored to his favour, and it had pleased him to see his little girl's delight in the new honours he was showering on her but he had hoped that Anne would show more gratitude for all he was doing for their daughter, acknowledging that he was doing it for her sake as well as Elizabeth's.

He had negotiated a royal marriage for their daughter, and even agreed to this trip to France, despite knowing that Francis must be mocking him, all for Anne's sake.

And what thanks had he had for his kindness?

Instead of Anne remembering that she was the Queen of England and that, no matter what difficulties they were having, her loyalty should lie with him and his country, she had dared to complain to the King of France about the treatment she had received at his hands – undoubtedly laying all the blame on him and pretending that because of his desire to marry Jane, he was prepared to see her executed, instead of acknowledging that most of the blame in this ugly affair lay with the men who had manufactured the charges and evidence against her, fooling him into believing that his wife and Queen had made a cuckold of him! – and even confiding details that should have been kept between them, so that Francis might mock Henry with his knowledge of the intimate details of their relationship, and the fact that Anne did not wish to share his bed.

By God she had finally pushed him too far and he would make it plain to her that he would tolerate no more of this! She was his wife and he expected her to behave like a dutiful wife and Queen in public, even if she could not bring herself to be congenial company to him in private.

He would not be humiliated like this again!

"Your Majesty, please!" Knivert was slightly breathless as he made his plea.

Henry was so angry that he did not dare to try to reach out to restrain him physically so he could only use words to try to calm his friend, before he damaged his cause with his wife so much that there would never be any hope of a true reconciliation. He did not know Anne very well, and he was clever enough to know that he should give little credence to gossip about her, but he was certain that this time was a critical one. The situation was so sensitive now that, if poorly handled, the damage could be irreparable and, as angry as he might be now, Henry would regret it if something he said or did now cost him every hope of rebuilding his relationship with his wife.

Despite everything that had happened, Knivert was sure that Henry loved Anne.

He would not want to drive her away permanently.

"Don't try to defend her, Anthony!" Henry growled angrily, not pausing for an instant or missing a step. "There's no excuse for what she has done!"

"But you can't know what exactly she said to King Francis." Knivert pointed out, praying that his friend would listen to reason and stop, at least long enough to calm down. He couldn't believe that Anne would really have gone so far as to mock Henry to Francis; if nothing else, she would want to protect her marriage for her child's sake, and it would not benefit little Princess Elizabeth if her father was exposed to ridicule in front of his fellow monarch. One of the reasons for this visit was to cement the Princess' betrothal to the Duke of Angouleme, after all, so there was no reason why the child's mother would do anything to sabotage their efforts on her behalf.

"I can guess." Henry retorted grimly.

As they neared the suite of rooms where his wife and daughter were lodged, he could hear Anne and Elizabeth's voices as they spoke, with Elizabeth chatting merrily as Anne helped her get ready for bed, encouraging her to say her prayers before she washed and changed into her nightgown, promising that she would brush her hair herself and tuck her in.

Instead of being calmed by the sounds of Anne preparing their child for bed, Henry felt even angrier to hear it; against his better judgement, he had agreed that Elizabeth might accompany them on their journey to France, despite the fact that it was unusual, to say the least, for so young a child to be present on a state visit, because he knew that Anne did not want to be parted from their daughter so soon. While he acknowledged that Elizabeth had behaved remarkably well for a child of such tender years and while he was proud of the good impression she had made on King Francis and on the French court, she should not have been there in the first place.

He brought her for Anne, along with Lady Bryan and her retinue of attendants, which was even larger than it was before Anne's arrest as Elizabeth's household was increased when she was granted the title of Princess Royal and now Anne, instead of letting the governess whose task it was to care for Elizabeth put the child to bed, as she should have, had taken on the task herself, absenting herself from the festivities in their honour so that she could tend to Elizabeth.

What must the French court think of a Queen who wanted to act like a nursemaid?

He did not wait for the liveried soldiers stationed outside Elizabeth's suite of rooms to open the door for him or announce his presence. Instead, he shoved past them and swung the door open with such ferocity that it banged loudly when it slammed against the wall, striking it so strongly that it nearly struck him in the face when it swung back from the impact.

His wife and daughter both started at the noise.

"Papa?" Elizabeth's pretty face was puzzled when she saw him enter. "Did you come to say 'goodnight' to me?" She asked, as it was the only reason she could think of for the surprise visit.

Ignoring his little daughter, Henry stalked over to Anne's side, grabbing her upper arm in a tight grip, not caring if he bruised her in his anger. She glared at him, her eyes icy, but she did not speak, unwilling to fight with him in front of their daughter. Her silence only made him angrier and he shook her, taking a grim satisfaction from her involuntary wince of pain, glad to see some kind of reaction from her instead of her obstinate impassiveness. "You and I are going to talk, madam." He told her, looking into her eyes. His voice was loud with fury. "Right now!"

Without another word, he pulled her out of the room, shoving her roughly in the direction of her apartment. Once they were out of Elizabeth's sight, Anne struggled against his grasp but he was stronger than she was, and held her tightly. As they left, he could hear Elizabeth's distressed cries and her plaintive pleas with him not to hurt her Mama but he refused to be moved by them.

He was going to talk to his wife and nothing and nobody could be allowed to prevent him.

Left behind in the nursery suite, Knivert stared at the weeping little princess in dismay and horror, not knowing how he should begin to comfort a young child. He was inwardly debating whether he should try to hug her or if she would be even more upset if a man who was practically a stranger to her tried to embrace her when, to his relief, the Lady Mary entered, her face pale.

"I heard the King..." She began, looking nervous.

"Mary!" Elizabeth darted into her older sister's arms, more pleased to see her than she could say. She hugged Mary tightly, not noticing that her tears were soaking Mary's fine gowns. "Papa is angry with Mama again, very angry." She sobbed, trembling with fear. The last time her Papa was so angry with her Mama, he sent Mama to the Tower and her head was nearly cut off. She was terrified to think of what might happen this time and wanted to hear Mary tell her that everything was going to be alright, that Papa and Mama would mend their quarrel and be happy again.

Mary cast a swift look in Knivert's direction, seeing his reluctant nod, confirming Elizabeth's words. Through the wall that separated Elizabeth's apartment from her mother's, she could hear the sound of angry shouting and, when she looked down at her little sister, she could see the distress on her face, and that distress decided her course of action.

For Elizabeth's sake, and for the sake of Elizabeth's mother, Mary's sainted mother was banished from her rightful place at court and shut away in a dismal country manor, with a steadily dwindling household and income, left to die, without a word of comfort from the husband she loved. Mary lost her rightful place as Princess and heir to the throne, and was forced to endure hardship and humiliation as a servant in her young half-sister's household until she was finally prevailed upon to yield to her father's wishes, acknowledging her mother's marriage as unlawful and herself a bastard... but she couldn't hold that against her sister now, not when the child was so unhappy.

No matter what their father had done to Mary or to her mother for Elizabeth's sake, she was just an innocent child, a child in need of Mary's comfort, and Mary would not deny it to her.

Bending down, she lifted Elizabeth up in her arms, before she could protest that she was too big to be carried like this or object to the idea of being removed from her nursery, and held her close, stroking her back gently and kissing her hair. At her age, Mary felt that she should be married now, with a child of her own in her arms, but she freely gave that love to her little sister.

"Come with me, Elizabeth." She said kindly, knowing that a child Elizabeth's age should not have to listen to her parents arguing. When she was young, it had distressed her to know of her parents' marital strife, even though she never heard them quarrel and would not have known of their difficulties except through the gossip of her attendants. That was bad enough, especially when she heard rumours that her father intended to put her mother away. Hearing them must be horrible for Elizabeth. "I'll take you to my room." Knivert opened the door for them with a low bow and Mary smiled her thanks before carrying Elizabeth out, hurrying down the corridor towards the chamber that was allotted to her, away from the sound of her father and Anne's angry voices.

* * *

Once they crossed the threshold of Anne's apartment, she wrenched her arm from Henry's grasp, pushing against his chest until he released her. Her sleeve was crumpled from his grip and her eyes were blazing, looking a darker blue than usual in her anger. Despite everything, she still managed to look dignified and regal as she met his gaze unflinchingly.

"You wished to speak to me, Your Majesty?" Her voice was low but it was laced with bitterness and the way she spoke the honorific made it sound like an insult to Henry's ears, angering him even more. Had she been frightened or contrite, he felt that he would have been kinder.

"Yes, madam!" He spat the words at her, past patience and even the barest modicum of courtesy. He had endured all he could bear from her. Her betrayal of him in running to Francis, whom she knew to be his rival and a man he hated to have the upper hand over him, with her complaints stung too much for him to be able to temper his anger. "You may want to pretend that you are a complete innocent in this, Anne, and that I am solely responsible for all of our troubles, but you do not have the right to make a fool of me – especially in front of him!" A flicker of puzzlement crossed her features before she composed her face into its blank mask and he felt as though he could have slapped her beautiful, maddening face. How dare she play him for a fool! "Don't bother pretending that you don't know what I'm talking about! I saw you talking to him!"

At the back of her mind, Anne was aware that she could probably diffuse the situation with relative ease if she repeated her conversation with Francis to Henry, pointing out that she had not spoken against him and that Francis was certainly clever enough to draw his own conclusions from the distance between them without her having to spell out the details of their difficulties to him but she didn't. Even if she had mocked Henry to his rival, her husband certainly was not in a position to complain of _her_ conduct, not after everything he had done to her.

Instead, she posed a sarcastic question, yielding to the urge to anger him, to hurt his pride even if she couldn't strike out at him any other way. "And did you listen to our conversation, my lord?" She asked, her tone one of mock reproof. "Surely you know that eavesdroppers never hear anything pleasant about themselves. They don't deserve to."

"You dare to mock me?" Henry demanded incredulously, unable to believe that she would dare to court his anger like this. Anne was not short of courage, he knew that, but she had good cause to know his power, and to know what he could do to her or to anybody else if they made him angry and yet she still pushed him, deliberately defying him. He didn't know whether he was impressed by her courage or if he wanted to strangle her. "I am your husband and your King!"

"What are you going to do to me?" She challenged. "What _can_ you do that you haven't done already?" She wanted to stay calm, to make sure that she didn't let Henry think that he could hurt or frighten her in any way but, even so, she could hear the pain in her voice as she spoke, and the bitterness. Her husband, the man she once loved and trusted above all others, believing that he would sooner die than harm her in any way, had already done so much to her that it was difficult for her to imagine that he could do anything more to her. "Can you top sending me to the Tower and leaving me to die?" She demanded angrily. "Can you top disinheriting our innocent child?"

Despite everything Henry had done to bolster Elizabeth's status, despite her father's reassurance that there could now be no question of Elizabeth losing her rightful place, Anne was still angrier about Henry's malicious actions towards their daughter than she was about what he had done to her. She had committed her share of wrongs in her life, but Elizabeth was innocent.

"I rescued you from the Tower, Anne." Henry protested. She was making him feel as though he was in the wrong, and he hated that feeling. He wanted to be able to hold onto his anger with her, to tell himself that nothing he did could justify the coldness with which she treated him and the way she exposed him to public embarrassment with her actions. "As soon as I knew that you were innocent, I cancelled the executions and I ordered that you and the others should be released and I punished the people who accused you of betraying me." Even as he said it, he could feel the heat rising to his cheeks, reminding him that he had not punished everybody who had accused her.

Of those who had conspired against Anne, or who had aided in the conspiracy, only Cromwell had paid with his life. Lady Rochford would be imprisoned for some months longer before she was released into the care of her father as George Boleyn, understandably, refused to have anything to do with the wife who had accused him of incest with his sister – though, if the reports Master Kingston sent were true, Henry thought that the madness that Lady Rochford had suffered from since she was sent to the Tower was punishment enough for her part in the affair.

She had lost her place of honour at court as the Queen's sister-in-law, lost her share in the prosperity of the Boleyn family and lost the threads of sanity binding her to her own mind.

Henry could think of no worse fate than that.

He had punished the whole Seymour family for their willingness to stand by while an innocent woman was executed for their benefit, banishing them from court, stripping them of a large share of their family's wealth and even taking Sir John's knighthood, demoting the whole clan at a stroke and ensuring that no lord would want to accept the Seymour sons into his services or accept one of the Seymour daughters as his wife but perhaps Anne felt that their punishment was not severe enough. Perhaps she felt that he should have sent Jane and her family to the Tower for presuming to think that Jane could sit on Anne's throne, beheading the lot of them for their ambition.

And Brandon…

In many ways, the question of Brandon's fate was the most difficult one for Henry to answer.

Brandon was his dearest friend, almost his brother – in many ways, he was more of a brother to Henry than Arthur ever was. When Brandon told him that he had not anticipated that Cromwell would take advantage of his mention of the rumours about Anne in order to manufacture charges to get rid of her and Henry believed him… or perhaps he just wanted to believe him, as the alternative was to accept that his friend had committed an act of treason and should follow Cromwell to the scaffold for it. Did Anne believe that Brandon had deliberately sought her death and want Henry to punish him accordingly, believing that he had been too lenient with him?

She had not said anything about it but he doubted that she would have, even if she thought that he was letting Brandon escape serious punishment because of their long-standing friendship.

Anne's eyes met his gaze steadily, and if Henry had not been so wrapped up in his anger, the scorn in them would have made him flinch. "Are you saying that you regret doing the right thing?" She asked, half-fearing the answer he would give her and half wanting to hear it, wanting to be justified in her anger and hatred towards him. If Henry could do it all over again, would he choose to save her life or would he let her die so that he could marry Mistress Seymour? "Would you rather have your slut as your wife? Would you rather believe that she was sweet and innocent and virtuous, your perfect woman?" She infused her words with sarcasm, taking a malicious pleasure from the flush of embarrassment that suffused Henry's cheeks.

She was grimly amused to have her suspicion that Henry's fond illusions about Jane Seymour's perfections had been disappointed. She might have suspected that Jane had revealed herself and her ambition, proving to Henry that, far from being a lady whose only thought was of her honour and who refused to be his mistress because she did not want to bring disgrace to her family name or ruin her chances of contracting an honourable marriage, she was ambitious, like the rest of her revolting family, and willing to do whatever it took to get what she wanted.

She was sure that if Henry had been such a fool as to marry Mistress Seymour, he would be spending more time with his mistress than with her within a matter of months, and before two years had passed – less if the wench couldn't get with child – he would be bored with her.

"She would have been a good wife to me, and made me happy." Henry said sullenly, even though he wasn't at all certain that this would be the case. If Jane was capable of deceiving him into believing that she was the kind of sweet, gentle woman he longed to have as his wife, a perfect, peaceful contrast to Anne and the kind of woman who would be a perfect Queen for his country, then who could say what else she might be capable of? "And when she gave me a son, England would have an heir, an heir they would be proud to own." He added, more strongly this time.

Once, he was sure that if he stood by and allowed Anne to die so that he would be free to marry Jane, God would never bless their union with a son but now he wanted to believe that Jane would have given him boys, strong princes for England. Nobody would challenge their right to be his heirs; even Mary would have to acknowledge that a legitimate son would take precedence over her by right, and cease her pretended claims to be the rightful heir to the throne.

Anne's laugh was a mocking one. "I'm sure that wench's brats would have been sons for you to be proud of – if they were your sons at all, and not bastards she pawned off on you for fear of her position and her life if you lacked the potency to give her a child." She remarked, knowing his weaknesses and targeting them ruthlessly, not allowing herself to soften towards him or to shy away from the cruelty. "If you had half the intelligence or the sense that you did when we met, and I fell in love with you, you would know that Elizabeth has it in her to be a great Queen one day, a greater ruler by far than any worthless half-Seymour brat." At the thought of her beloved daughter, her features softened and a smile crossed her features. "She has the best of both of us."

Despite himself, Henry found himself nodding agreement.

Elizabeth was a blessing, a princess that England should be proud of. Everything that a father could want in a daughter was there in her beauty, her intelligence, her grace and her innocence.

If she had been born a boy, he would have been able to rest easy, knowing that he could have given his country no greater heir... and if she had been born a boy, he knew that the Seymours would never have dared to imagine that Jane could hope to be his Queen, and neither Brandon nor Cromwell would ever have dared to make allegations against the mother of the Prince of Wales.

None of this need have happened, had Elizabeth been a son.

"She's a girl..." He began gruffly but he trailed off, not knowing what else to say.

"A girl that you should be proud of. You'd never have a child like our Elizabeth with any other woman, Henry, and you know it!" Anne countered, forgetting to distance herself from him by addressing him formally and using his Christian name instead. "She's the child of our love." She remarked sadly, remembering the night that they conceived Elizabeth, in an opulent bedchamber in Calais, the last time they travelled to France. Back then, she was so sure that the child she and Henry made that night was a boy, a future prince who would complete the fairytale that she and Henry were writing together, showing the world that their union was right.

She supposed that it would be easy to blame their troubles on the fact that their child was a daughter instead of a son and, at the time, Anne was disappointed to hear that she had borne a girl, a disappointment that no assurances that the child was healthy and that boys would follow could quash entirely, but she knew now that none of this was Elizabeth's fault.

Elizabeth was her perfect, beautiful child and Anne wouldn't change anything about her.

The only thing she would ever want to change would be the way that the world, and Elizabeth's father in particular, had reacted to the arrival of her precious daughter.

Elizabeth had deserved better than to have anybody feel regret or sorrow at her birth.

"You don't deserve her!" She spoke the words before she had even framed them in her mind, glaring at Henry, furious with him for the way he was willing to simply cast their daughter aside, punishing her for the sins he made himself believe that her mother had committed but also for not being the son he wanted. He would never have dreamed of declaring their son a bastard, even if she had committed adultery! He would never have wanted to hurt a boy like that. He would have done everything in his power to make it plain that he would never dream of punishing the Prince of Wales, regardless of what his mother had done, even if the Seymours wished to see a boy whelped by one of their own sitting on the throne when Henry was gone. "If you're such a fool that you couldn't see how wonderful she is, then you don't deserve to have her! If you were willing to hurt her, if you were willing to push her away then you don't deserve her!"

She wasn't just speaking about Elizabeth now.

"I can do as I please!" Henry barked at her. He reached for her arm but she was too quick for him and she ducked away before he could catch her. "I am the King of England and _I_ decide what to do with my children! If it pleased me that Elizabeth should step back for the children I would have with my future wife, then nobody can tell me that I may not declare her a bastard!" He stamped his foot for emphasis, his voice rising to a shout. "It is for me to decide!"

"Yes," Anne agreed, her tone icy. "It was your choice, and you decided that you would make our daughter a bastard, even when I was going to die and there was no need to annul our marriage so that you could marry your slut, whelp brats with her and call them legitimate! You made that choice. I don't believe that even Cromwell would have pushed you to annul our marriage and make Elizabeth a bastard if you didn't tell him that this was what you wanted!"

Part of Anne wanted to rail at him for having decided to send her to her death instead of first offering her a chance to leave willingly, to enter a nunnery – assuming that he and Cromwell were prepared to leave any of them in existence – or to negotiate her withdrawal from their marriage, preserving Elizabeth's rights as Princess, but she couldn't voice the words, so she focused her anger on the wrongs Henry had committed against Elizabeth, wrongs that were so unforgivable.

Henry opened his mouth to yell at her, to tell her that she had no right to complain about what he decided to do; if he wanted the daughters he had with Jane to be the only Princesses of England, then he had every right to make that decision, and as he had believed that Elizabeth was the daughter of a whore who had betrayed him, how could he be expected to continue to honour her?

Wouldn't it have been better if he could be certain that the girls he was honouring as princesses were truly his daughters, with no risk that they might be another man's bastards?

However, before he could continue to rail at Anne, the door to the chamber banged open and Boleyn stormed into the room, pushing past Henry so that he could go to Anne's side, putting his arms around her and hugging her, his eyes warm with concern as he studied her face.

"Are you alright, sweetheart?" He asked her gently, directing a reproachful, angry frown in Henry's direction. Henry wanted to rail at his father-in-law for daring to intrude like that, to remind him, in no uncertain terms, that not even Anne's father had the right to interfere between husband and wife, much less between King and Queen, but Boleyn didn't give him a chance to say a word before he started to usher Anne to the door. "I think that Elizabeth needs to see you now, sweetheart." He said kindly, rubbing her arm supportively. "You should go to her. It'll be alright." He told her. "There are some things that the King and I must speak of."

Anne hesitated for a moment, unsure whether she should stay and finish her argument with Henry, airing the issues that had long needed airing, but Elizabeth's needs came first. Squeezing her father's hand briefly and smiling her thanks, she slipped out of the room in search of her child.

"How dare you!" Henry demanded of Boleyn as soon as Anne left the room. "What right..."

"She is my daughter." Boleyn told him, his scowl furrowing his brow. There was no deference in his tone, or in his manner. He was not speaking to his sovereign, he was speaking to the man who had wronged his daughter so deeply. "I will never let another man hurt her, not again."

Henry's laugh was a mocking one. "Where was your fatherly protectiveness in May, my Lord Wiltshire?" He asked in a mocking tone. "I have read the account of your interrogation, my lord, and you never spoke a single word in Anne's defence." Henry was surprised to find himself feeling defensive of Anne, angry that her own father had chosen to keep silent and save his own skin rather than trying to defend her when she stood in need of protection and support. Although he knew that, if Boleyn had sought to defend Anne when she was first accused, he would probably have been condemned as a traitor along with her, likely on the grounds that he had aided her in her infidelities in the hope that she would give him a grandson to pass off as a true heir to the throne, he was still indignant to think that Boleyn, who had profited so much from Anne's rise, had been so quick to abandon her when she fell from favour.

Who was he to dare to criticize Henry's behaviour towards her?

He had hoped to see Boleyn flinch at this reminder of how lacking his fatherly protection of Anne was but the other man's face remained composed. He had already berated himself over his cowardice and betrayal, far more than Henry ever could. "I regret that, more than you will ever know. I knew that my daughter would never have dreamed of betraying you, not even if she believed that she would be able to get a son to keep herself safe, and I should have said so when your creatures questioned me. I knew that Anne loved you too much to betray you."

_Love._

That word sounded like a mockery, coming from Boleyn, and Henry could feel his anger renew at the sound of it.

Did Boleyn think that he didn't know of the way that he, his son and Norfolk had plotted to put Anne in his way, hoping that he would fall in love with her and that they would reap the benefits of his favour, willing to offer Anne up as a virgin sacrifice – if, indeed, she was a virgin when they pushed her into his path; even now, Henry wasn't certain about that, his memories of the first time he and Anne were together and the certainty that he had felt then that he was her first lover muted by the allegations Brandon had made about her affair with Wyatt and by the gossip that had come to light when Anne was arrested – in order to ensure their future prosperity?

Did he think that he didn't know that every detail of his courtship of Anne was planned by her family, carefully calculated to fire his interest and to ensure that he had no hope of escaping her spell, no hope of being able to forget Anne and turn his attention to another woman, no hope of being able to keep himself from doing whatever it took to have Anne, no matter what price he had to pay to have her in his arms, and in his bed, to know that she was _his_?

Did Boleyn really think that he was so blind?

"Love!" He spat the word at Boleyn as though it was an oath of the vilest kind. "Do you think that I don't know that you planned everything, from the very beginning?" He demanded. "Do you think that I don't know that, when I no longer wished to keep your other daughter as my mistress, you decided that Anne should take her place? Do you think I don't know that you planned how you would have us meet, and told Anne what she should do to make me love her? You wanted to use her to win my favour, so that you would reap the benefits! Suffolk told me everything!"

Despite himself, Henry felt tears of anger burning behind his eyes, tears that felt so hot that he was sure they would scald the skin of his face if he allowed even one of them to escape.

He wasn't sure what the tears were for.

Were they for himself, for the sorrow and anger he felt to know that the one woman he had loved and wanted above all others had never truly loved him, and had only received his advances because that was what her family wanted her to do, or were they for Anne, whose family was willing to treat her as a pawn to be traded for their own advancement?

How had Anne felt when her father told her his plans for her? Was she dismayed, worried about what it would mean for her reputation and future prospects if she was known to be his mistress, or was she pleased to be able to play her part in promoting the interests of her family? She loved her brother, after all, and her father so perhaps she was glad to be able to help them make their way in the world and would have agreed to it, if she was given the choice. Was she even asked how she felt about it, or just told what she was to do and given no opportunity to protest?

Despite himself, Henry felt pity for his wife, for having such a family.

He was sure that, if he was an ordinary nobleman or courtier instead of being King, he would never dream of seeking advancement by trading on the beauty and charms of Mary or Elizabeth, and he certainly would never have dreamed of allowing his wife to become another man's mistress, as he knew some Frenchmen did when their wives caught Francis' eyes.

No reward could be worth such shame!

Boleyn made no attempt to deny his allegation, he merely nodded. "Yes, my Lord of Norfolk and I discussed the issue, when it became clear that you were tiring of my daughter, Mary, and we believed that it would be in the best interests of our family if Anne could be brought to court, so that she might catch your eye. We knew that, if you liked her, our family could reap great benefits from your favour. It was later that the Duke of Suffolk joined with us, for reasons of his own." He kept his words deliberately vague as he spoke of Brandon, not knowing what the other man had told Henry of his own involvement in the affair, although he suspected that Brandon would have downplayed his part as much as possible, never admitting that he was just as eager for Wolsey's downfall as Boleyn or Norfolk, and equally desperate to win his way back to court and to the King's favour, so much so that he was willing to ally with men he did not like or esteem in order to achieve his goals. He was angry enough with Brandon to be willing to let Henry reach his own conclusions, especially if they were damaging to Brandon.

"You were willing to sell your daughter's honour for my favour!" Henry snapped at him, furious.

To his astonishment and anger, Boleyn laughed in response, as though he was highly amused by Henry's indignant words rather than offended, and he made no attempt to deny the allegation. "You can't be surprised by that!" He remarked, his smile patronising as he met Henry's gaze. "You are the King of England, after all, and it is well known that you have an eye for beautiful women."

"It is a King's right..." Henry began, bristling, but Boleyn cut him off before he could finish voicing his thought.

"Of course it is a King's right to take a mistress if he chooses." Boleyn's words might have indicated that he agreed with Henry but his tone was patronising and indulgent, as though he was addressing a spoiled, wilful and rather unintelligent child. "Who would deny you that right?" He asked rhetorically, well aware of the fact that Anne would have disputed this, if she had dared, and guessing from the expression on Henry's face that he was also thinking of her. "After all, most Kings are not permitted the luxury of choosing their own brides, so who can blame them if they seek solace with other ladies, prettier and more accommodating than the brides their ministers bring to their beds. However," his tone became serious, almost chiding, as though Henry should already know this, "a King should know better than to think that the ladies who receive his favours do so for no other reason than that they love him. With most of them, they receive the King's advances for the sake of rewards for themselves and their kin."

Henry could feel his cheeks glowing with heat born of embarrassment and anger as he remembered the generosity with which he had treated the Seymour family not many months ago. In his infatuation, he was convinced that no rewards could be too great for the family of his dearest Jane, and with hindsight, he could see that the protests made by Jane and her father and brother that they did not deserve such generosity from him were feigned. Instead of being awed by the bounty he had showered on them, Henry was now certain that they had calculated the value of each gift and each office he granted to them as shrewdly as merchants pricing goods, determined that they should derive the maximum possible benefit from his love for Jane.

Not that Anne's family were any different!

He was sure that few Kings had ever been as generous with the family of their loves as he was with the Boleyn family. Through his generosity, Boleyn had gone from being an ordinary knight and courtier – albeit an able and trusted ambassador – to an earl twice over and one of the richest lords in the kingdom, and George had certainly not been forgotten either.

Considering that all they had done to merit their rich rewards was to push their daughter and sister towards him, they had done remarkably well for themselves, so well that they had excited a great deal of jealousy among his courtiers, who resented that one family, a family who were far from being of the noblest stock, should enjoy such honour and prominence.

Boleyn was still speaking, his voice cool and matter-of-fact. "Your Majesty is too intelligent a man to delude himself." He remarked, keeping his eyes directed at Henry's, holding his gaze so that the other man should know that he was speaking the truth, however much he might want to believe otherwise. "If a thousand women smile upon you, and receive your overtures with delight, professing themselves in love with you and willing to please you, however they can, you may be certain that nine hundred and ninety-nine of those women are thinking of the rewards they will gain for themselves and for their families if they can win your affection and become your mistress, not of your handsome face or your strength or whatever it is they claim to love in you."

The words hit Henry like a blow, striking him squarely across the chest and robbing him of breath.

As much as he would have liked to believe that Boleyn was lying, choosing his words carefully in order to hurt him as much as he possibly could, to exact revenge for his treatment of Anne, he couldn't persuade himself that this was the case, not when the other man's tone and manner made it plain that he was speaking the truth, daring to say what nobody else would.

_"How is your husband?" The question was a half-mocking one; Henry was aware that Lord Blount was away in Wales, overseeing the stewardship of one of the King's estates, as he was the one to send the other man away from court on the manufactured errand, so that he might enjoy his time with Blount's wife in peace, without having to worry about being interrupted by an irate husband._

_"My husband?" Bessie made a half-hearted gesture with her hands, as though to indicate that her husband's welfare mattered little to her. He would never be as important to her as Henry was, and they both knew it. "Is extremely jealous." They both laughed at that but her next words were more serious, her tone becoming sombre, almost fearful. "He's threatening to make a scandal, says he'll put me in a nunnery."_

_Henry looked up at this, shocked, but he soon recovered. "Oh... that would be such a waste."_

It was partly because of this threat that Henry had taken steps to ensure that Lord Blount would be placated when he learned that Bessie carried his child, making the other man an earl and granting him estates to support the dignity of his new title. Bessie had pleased him greatly during their time together, and she was soon to give him a child so he had wanted to make sure that her husband would not make her suffer for it, or force her into a nunnery for the rest of her life, forcing her into the bleak life of a nun, bound to vows of poverty, obedience and chastity.

Had Bessie truly been concerned that her husband would carry out his threat?

Had Lord Blount even made such a threat in the first place?

Henry did not know the man well, was never interested in him except as Bessie's husband, but surely there were few courtiers who would ever have dared to make a scandal by drawing public attention to an affair that the King wished to be kept secret, or who would have forced their wife into a nunnery if it meant that they would be depriving the King of the company of somebody he wanted to have near him. Perhaps Blount had never made a threat – perhaps it was something that he and Bessie concocted between them in order to encourage Henry to shower Blount with more handsome rewards in exchange for his acceptance of the fact that his wife carried another man's bastard child, a child to whom he might be expected to give his name if it was a girl.

Even then, Henry had known that he could not expect one of his lords to tamely consent to such an arrangement, not without his making it worth the man's while, but perhaps the Blounts had schemed to ensure that their rewards would be as rich as they could possibly manage.

Had he been deceived in Bessie?

_"Are you really the King of England?"_

At the time, he had taken it as curiousity and incredulity on the part of Bess, the woman he had come across when he was riding in the woods with Brandon, and whom he had led away to a nearby rustic lodge, a relatively simple dwelling that was kept in readiness, should he need a place to bring a woman, away from the prying eyes of the court, but had there been avarice in her tone as well? If he had not denied that he was King, insisting that he was pulling her leg and allowing Bess to believe him to be nothing more than an ordinary lord, in the hope that word of his affair would not reach Anne's ears, would she have hinted that she wished to be richly rewarded for the pleasure she had given him, pleasure that could well have put her marriage to her betrothed in jeopardy, if he renounced her as an unchaste woman, or even demanded a reward outright?

He wished that he could know.

_As soon as he saw Brandon enter the Great Hall, Henry hastened to his side, without saying a word to Anne to excuse himself, eager to hear what he had to say. For this test of Jane's character, Brandon was the only man at court Henry would have charged with the task of conveying his message to the lady. Only Brandon could have been trusted with so delicate an errand, trusted to perform it discreetly and to report truthfully on the matter, without trying to soften the truth to spare Henry's feelings or to exalt the other party._

_"What did she say?"_

_"She returned the letter unopened and the purse both." Brandon reported, seeming to be almost as pleased by this as Henry was – but then, he had never liked Anne and must have rejoiced to think that she might soon be supplanted by another woman, especially when Brandon felt pity for Mary, and must know that Jane's intentions towards the girl were kinder than Anne's. "She said that she had no greater treasure in the world than her honour and that if you want to give her money, she prays you might do so when she has made an honourable marriage."_

_Another man in his position might have been disappointed by Brandon's report but Henry was pleased by what he heard, pleased to know that his suspicions about Jane were justified._

_He was so sure that Brandon's words meant that he could be confident that Jane was different, that she loved him for himself and would want to be with him honourably, if he could arrange it._

_"She has behaved herself in this matter most modestly."_

Now, of course, he knew that Jane's refusal of his letter and of his purse of sovereigns was not motivated by modesty and by a fear that her reputation would be compromised if she, an unmarried maiden, accepted such a gift from a man but by ambition and greed. She had refused the purse of sovereigns because she and her family had their eyes on a far greater prize than money or a scattering of appointments and stewardships, and they were unscrupulous enough not to care what they needed to do in order to obtain it.

Had Jane ever smiled at him without thinking of the many ways in which she and her family might benefit from his favour, if she could win his love?

Had her every move been dictated by expedience, a step towards her ultimate goal?

Had she and her family calculated, from the very beginning, how she ought to behave in order to capture his attention and win his love, knowing from gossip that he and Anne were in difficulties and shrewdly guessing that his fancy would fall on a woman who was as unlike Anne as could be? Had they groomed Jane so that she would be that woman, taking advantage of Henry's marital difficulties and exploiting them in order to exalt the Seymour family?

He was glad that he had humbled them, glad that he had exposed them as the worthless, self-serving creatures they were. They deserved no less for trying to play him for a fool. He half-regretted that he had not forced them to publicly abase themselves, crawling on their hands and knees to Anne to beg her forgiveness before the eyes of the court, but he knew that that would have reflected ill on him, as he had shown the Seymour family such marked favour in the months immediately preceding Anne's arrest, as well as while she was imprisoned in the Tower.

But how many others would try to play the same game?

Had Agnes Parker returned his smiles because she liked him or because he might make her rich?

How could he ever trust that any woman would respond to his advances because they loved him as a man, instead of seeing in him the potential for material gain?

Henry wanted to weep.

"And Anne?" He asked hoarsely, looking at Boleyn and praying that the other man would not speak the words he feared to hear, even though those words would vindicate him, at least somewhat. He didn't want to hear that Anne too was nothing more than a self-seeking woman, one who had obeyed her father and her uncle when they commanded her to catch his eye and encourage her advances for no other reason than that he could enrich her family in exchange for her favours. He didn't want to hear that it was never real. "What about Anne?"

Boleyn permitted himself a small smile. "She's the one in a thousand." He answered, his tone slightly softer now that he spoke of his daughter. "She loved you, God help her – and, though she may not know it now, and may not _want_ to know it, I believe that she still loves you."

Henry wanted to believe it, especially as he knew that, with or without love, he would have to keep Anne as his wife until the day one of them died.

Could he dare hope that, after everything, Anne could still love him?

How could she?

If their positions were reversed, he was sure that he wouldn't be able to forgive her if she had turned to another man, and if he believed that she had ordered his death to pave the way for his rival to take his place by her side and in her heart. He would not forgive her for trying to disinherit his daughter in favour of another man's brat, pushing aside the child of their love so that the bastard she conceived with his rival could enjoy her love and the honours she would shower on it.

Could Anne be capable of being so much more forgiving than he would be in her place?

"She never loved me." He said gruffly, but his tone lacked the angry assurance it had had when he and Anne last spoke before her arrest, when he was unwilling to listen to a word from the lips of the woman he believed to have deceived him for so many years, bewitching him into thinking that he loved her and into being willing to do whatever he had to do if it meant that she could be his wife. Then, he was sure that every word from Anne's lips was a lie, sure that she had only ever pretended to love him at the instigation of her father, so that the Boleyn family would enjoy his favour and the many benefits it would bring them, as Brandon told him was the case, but now he wasn't certain. Now, he had hope that at least some of the love they shared was real.

"She did." Boleyn maintained. "Believe me, I didn't want her to. We were working towards an important goal, for the benefit of our family, and the last thing I needed was for a lovesick girl to spoil everything by forgetting what was at stake and falling in love with you in truth." He spoke matter-of-factly, as though Anne's feelings had not been of any importance to him, except as a potential complication in his plans for her, and Henry felt a renewed wave of pity for Anne and anger towards the father who should have taken better care of her. "If I could have kept Anne from loving you, I would have. Maybe she wouldn't have been hurt as badly. Her uncle warned her not to be fooled by her masquerade but by then, it was no masquerade. She loved you."

Henry listened in silence. There were many things he wanted to say, many questions he wanted to ask, but his tongue would not voice the words. All he could do was listen.

"She kept all of the letters you sent her," Boleyn continued in a conversational tone. "Every single one. I confiscated them at first, of course," he said, as though that should be obvious, "but she got them back – I don't know if she bribed my secretary to bring them to her, or if she slipped into my study herself but she got them. I probably should have taken them from her, but I decided to leave her be. What harm was there in a few letters? I believe that she still has them in her apartment at Whitehall." He added, watching Henry's reaction carefully and feeling pleased when he saw that the other man was visibly moved by this.

Henry struggled to control himself, to keep his emotions from showing on his face, but he was fighting a losing battle.

Anne had returned the four brooches he sent her, the first gift he commissioned for her, just as Jane had returned the purse, saying that she was unworthy of such a gift, but she had kept his letters. As their courtship progressed, the gifts he sent to her became more and more valuable, until he had supplied her with a collection of jewellery that a Queen would not be ashamed to boast, before he crowned his gifts by presenting her with the official jewels of the Queens of England, once he was finally able to induce Katherine to part with them so that they could be given to England's future Queen. Once she was crowned Queen, it was fitting that she should only wear her finest jewels, so she rarely wore his earlier gifts to her, jewels that must have been consigned to a box somewhere in her chamber, destined to remain hidden away, unworn... but she had kept the letters, safeguarding them as though they were priceless to her.

Had she read them since her return from the Tower, reminding herself of the love they had shared, or was the subject still too painful for her to be willing to look at them?

He wanted to ask her but he knew that he could not.

"If she didn't love you, she would never have protested about your keeping a mistress. You could have had all the sluts you could possibly want, with her blessing." Boleyn continued, once he judged that he had paused long enough to give Henry time to reflect on his words and to take in their meaning. "It must be very easy for a woman who does not love her husband to close her eyes when she sees that he had taken a fancy to another woman, especially when she may be certain that her position in his life is not in jeopardy," he added, knowing that, when Henry first began to take mistresses, it was unlikely to have entered his head that one of them might be a more agreeable consort than Anne; Katherine was still alive in those days, so there could be no question of discarding Anne, and Henry's behaviour towards his wife was generally kind. As Boleyn had suspected at the time, he was simply amusing himself when Anne was pregnant and unable to lie with him. It wasn't until later, when the ambitious Seymour whore fancied herself a future Queen, that Anne truly had cause to worry about the possibility of a true rival. "If she loves her husband, however, then it must cause her great pain to see him loving other women."

In his mind's ear, Henry could hear Anne's voice reproaching him, reminding him that he too bore some of the blame for the loss of their son, the baby boy she miscarried. He had not wanted to believe it then, had wanted to believe that she and she alone was to blame for the loss, but now he couldn't shut out the pain in her voice as she spoke to him, willing him to listen.

_"I was distressed to see you with that wench, Jane Seymour! Because the love I bear you is so great, it broke my heart to see you loved others."_

She loved him then, he realized, salty tears finally escaping from beneath his eyelids and tracing scorching paths down his cheeks, the fiery liquid searing his skin.

She had not lied when she swore that she loved him in the garden, when he had a chance to take her in his arms and reassure her that everything would be well and that he knew that the charges against her were false, a chance that he had refused to take advantage of.

She told him the truth and, in return, he turned his back on her and let her enemies take her.

He had promised that he would always love her and he had broken his word.

He had let Anne's enemies bring her down, and almost let them kill her.

How could he have done that to her?

Boleyn was still speaking but Henry could scarcely hear his words.

"If you want to blame me for arranging for you to see my daughter, and for hoping that you would fall in love with her, you have the right to do that, and to punish me however you see fit." He said gravely, knowing what he could be risking by saying this but meaning every word. This was his chance to put things right for his youngest child, to try to make amends for his cowardice in refusing to defend her when she needed her father to stand by her and protect her, and he had no intention of wasting it. "Anne doesn't deserve to be punished for what her uncle and I made her do, and she doesn't deserve to be punished for loving you."

Henry nodded automatically before turning pleading eyes to the other man. "Is it too late?" He asked, desperately needing to hear the other man tell him that it wasn't, to tell him that, despite his mistakes, despite the way he had hurt her, Anne still had some love left in her heart for him. He needed Boleyn to reassure him that he had not lost Anne forever. "Can she still love me? Can she forgive me for everything that's happened between us?"

Boleyn considered his question carefully before he answered, knowing that this was a serious matter, not a question to be considered lightly. "I don't know." He said at last, deciding to answer the question honestly rather than giving Henry the reassurance he plainly sought. Anne might be his daughter but he did not know her innermost thoughts, and probably never would. "You can't know until you ask her to – but even if she can't forgive you, I need you to swear to me that you will be kind to her, and to little Elizabeth, no matter what happens." He added seriously, needing to know that his daughter and granddaughter would be safe. "They deserve that much at least."

Henry nodded. "I promise." He vowed sincerely.

* * *

Elizabeth was nestled in her older sister's arms, snuggling into Mary's embrace as she wept. Mary did her best to sooth the little girl, hating to hear her cry and wanting to be able to calm Elizabeth, but the cries were unceasing. Young as she was, Elizabeth knew that something was badly wrong between her parents and, even if Mary was willing to lie outright, Elizabeth would not have been fooled by any empty reassurances, especially when she knew how close her mother had come to dying not long ago, when her father was so angry with her.

"Papa shouted and shouted and shouted, Mary." She sniffled unhappily, allowing her sister to dry her eyes and blow her nose with a fine linen handkerchief. "He was so angry with my Mama, nearly as angry as he was that time in the garden, before Mama had to go away."

Mary rubbed her sister's back tenderly. She had heard from Chapuys of Anne's last, desperate appeal to the King before she was arrested, heard that Anne had gone to the King with Elizabeth in her arms, pleading with him to give her one more chance, out of love for their child if not out of love for her, but that her appeal was unsuccessful, with the King turning his back and walking away from her, never to look back. When she heard the story, Mary was torn between feeling scorn towards Anne, who had witnessed the way that the King turned on his true wife and his only legitimate child when it pleased him to do so, had expected such an appeal to be successful, and disgust that Anne should have tried to use her innocent little child as a shield against the King's anger, to get him to forgive her betrayal of him for Elizabeth's sake.

Now, however, she found it difficult to believe that Anne had truly betrayed her father and she recognized her appeal for what it was; a final, desperate attempt to appeal to the love she believed the King still held for her and her child and to the better side of his nature, in the hope that it would stay his hand from reaching out to destroy them utterly.

She couldn't help but wonder whether things might have been different for her if her mother had brought her before her father, as Anne brought Elizabeth, reminding him of what his intended course of action would mean for the daughter he adored as the pearl of his world, before his heart was entirely hardened against them and he was beyond feeling pity for their distress.

Might the King have heard her plea, and spared them all of the pain they had endured?

"I'm sure that His Majesty will calm down." Mary tried to reassure Elizabeth. She knew her father's temper and she was confident that, in time, he would gain control of himself and be able to speak to Anne calmly, and to come to see Elizabeth and reassure her that all was well. "He is angry now but he will feel better later on, and then he won't shout anymore."

"But why is he shouting now?" Elizabeth asked, not satisfied with this answer. "Mama didn't do anything wicked; she was just dancing and talking with King Francis, like she was supposed to." Lady Bryan had told Elizabeth that the her Papa, as the King of England, would dance with the Queen of France, and the King of France would dance with Mama, the Queen of England, to show that England and France were friends. This was also why Elizabeth, as the English princess, danced with a French prince, and why the lords and ladies of the two courts danced and talked together.

Everybody was supposed to be friends and they were all supposed to be happy tonight, not angry.

"I don't know, sweetheart." Mary said, stroking Elizabeth's hair gently and twining a curl around her finger, marvelling at how soft and silky it was, and how it gleamed in the firelight. When she was younger and believed that her father would arrange a fine marriage for her, with a wonderful, handsome prince, she had so many plans for the family she would bear; she would have a son first, to please her husband, since all men wanted a son, and that son would be dark-haired like her father, but after that she wanted a daughter whom she could name for her mother, and she had decided that this daughter should look like her grandmother, Elizabeth of York, with the same fair hair and blue eyes. Holding Elizabeth, she could almost imagine that her sister was her child.

"It's not nice of him to shout at Mama like that." Elizabeth stated, plumping her lower lip in an adorable pout of discontent. "It makes her very sad and then she cries, sometimes on the outside but _always_ on the inside." Even if she couldn't see tears in her Mama's eyes, Elizabeth knew in her heart that she sometimes cried on the inside, where nobody could see the tears. "Papa's very, very naughty and somebody needs to give him a big scolding!" She declared, looking ready to take on that task herself. Not even the King was allowed to be nasty to her Mama.

"Be careful, Elizabeth." Mary warned her sister, resolutely ignoring the small, mean part of her that whispered that she should let the child challenge their father and court his rage, reminding her that if Elizabeth lost their father's favour, Mary might benefit from it when their father turned to her again, to embrace his eldest daughter as his favourite and honour her above her young sister. "You must always be careful what you say to the King. It's dangerous to make him angry."

"I don't care." Elizabeth insisted obstinately. "Even a King shouldn't be allowed to be nasty to people, especially to the Queen." Her bravado faltered and her lower lip trembled, tears shining in her blue eyes. "Mary?" She asked in a tremulous voice, looking up at her sister with a trusting gaze. "Papa isn't going to try to send Mama to the bad place, is he? Even if he's angry with her? He's not going to let them cut off her head, will he?" She broke into soft sobs at the thought.

"No, sweetheart," Mary was quick to reassure her, knowing that, whatever else might happen, however angry her father might be, Anne was safe from this fate at least. After the way in which the people had reacted to news of her arrest and, later, to the news that Anne was innocent and that the charges laid against her were false, the King would never dare try to arrest her again, much less threaten to execute her, not when his own people would rise up in defence of the woman they had once reviled but who had now managed to win their hearts. "The King will never send your mother to the Tower again, I am sure of that, and he will never let anybody try to cut her head off – they would get into a lot of trouble with him if they tried, so they'd never dare." She joked weakly, hoping to lighten the mood but Elizabeth didn't smile.

"He was going to let them cut off her head before, even though she didn't do anything wrong then." She persisted. "My Mama would never do anything wrong."

Mary pursed her lips at this. To her mind, there were many wrong things that Anne had done, with the worst of her crimes reserved for Mary's sainted mother, whom she had robbed of the love of her once-devoted husband, as well as of the place that was hers by rights, the place that God had decreed should be hers. However, she knew that she could not say something like that to Elizabeth, who was far too young to understand the turmoil that the King's Great Matter, begun for Anne's sake, had wrought on so many innocent lives and who loved her mother so much that she would never be able to believe her capable of evil.

For the sake of the love she cherished for her sister, and for their future together, she knew that she should never speak of the past, particularly of her mother, around Elizabeth.

It was the only way they could be at peace together.

"That was a mistake." She said at last, focusing on the charges laid against Anne rather than on the other sins she had committed, sins for which she was unlikely to be called to account for, at least not in this life. "The King believed that your mother did bad things, and that was why she was taken to the Tower for questioning. When His Majesty knew that she was innocent, he took her away from the Tower and he brought her back to court to be his Queen again." Mary forced herself to smile, as though this was the conclusion of a fairytale, a happy ending for a heroine who was falsely accused, not allowing herself to give Elizabeth any hint that she did not consider the title of Queen to be Anne's title to claim, innocent or not. "I'm sure that this quarrel is just a misunderstanding too," she reassured Elizabeth, "and it will all soon be sorted out."

"I hope so." Elizabeth said, relaxing a little in Mary's arms. She badly wanted to believe that her Mama and her Papa would be able to mend their quarrel, and that her Papa would be kind to her Mama from now on. She wanted them to be happy together, the way a family should be, especially the royal family, and the way she remembered them being a long time ago, when she was much younger. If her Papa would only apologize, Mama would forgive him, Elizabeth was sure of that. "I wish that Papa would tell Mama that he was sorry." She remarked.

Mary couldn't suppress a gasp at this, imagining how her father would react if he was told that he was expected to apologize to somebody. She knew that, when he and her mother were still happily married, her father strayed from time to time, taking mistresses, but she could not imagine him ever apologizing to her mother for this, not even when he came back to her, tiring of his mistress and remembering that his wife was the only lady who truly held his heart.

He would have expected his indiscretions to be forgiven and forgotten without a word of apology from him, and she was sure that this was what he expected should happen with Anne.

The near-miss over Anne's execution might be a far more serious offence than the taking of a mistress, or even the fathering of a bastard child but, even so, Mary could not imagine her father swallowing his pride enough to tender an apology to Anne. The best that she could hope for would be that his remorse would be genuine enough to last, and to ensure that he treated her kindly from now on, resolving that he would never again wrong her as he had before.

That would have to be enough for Anne.

Elizabeth was half-asleep in her arms when there was a soft knock at the door and one of Mary's maids of honour answered it, hastening to her mistress and curtseying to her and to little Elizabeth. "Your Highness, my Lady Mary, Her Majesty the Queen is here." The girl announced.

With Elizabeth in her arms, Mary wasn't able to rise to curtsey to Anne but her stepmother indicated that she should stay where she was, smiling warmly at her before bending down to Elizabeth's level and stroking the tear damp cheeks, murmuring words of reassurance before she turned her attention to Mary, a look of genuine gratitude on her face.

"Thank you for taking care of Elizabeth, Mary." She said, reaching out as though to take Mary's hand in hers before hesitating, thinking better of the gesture. Although she had held to her resolve to treat Mary with respect and kindness and although she believed that she and her stepdaughter had reached an understanding and might even hope, one day, to be friends, their relationship was still on a very shaky footing, and pushing too far, too quickly, could undo all of the progress they had made. She contented herself with another smile. "I truly appreciate it."

"It was my pleasure, Your Majesty." Mary answered truthfully; it had not been for Anne's sake that she brought Elizabeth to her chamber, away from the sounds of her parents' quarrel, it was for love of her little sister, who did not deserve to have to listen to their angry exchange.

"Anne, please." Anne corrected her impulsively. Mary was never going to see her as her Queen, there was no sense in deceiving herself on that count, so perhaps the best thing for them both was to dispense with titles and honourifics.

"Anne." Mary repeated the name obediently, returning Anne's smile despite herself and feeling relieved to know that she would no longer need to pretend that she saw Anne as the true Queen of England, at least when they were alone. In public, she would have to observe the formalities, and her father would probably insist that she accord Anne all the respect due to the Queen when he was present but, when it was just the two of them, they could simply be Mary and Anne.

She liked that thought.

Anne reached out to take Elizabeth in her arms, rocking her daughter gently and holding her close, humming under her breath. Elizabeth snuggled closer to her but she fought against the urge to drowse off to sleep now that she was safe in her mother's arms. She couldn't allow herself to fall asleep until she knew that her Mama was alright, and that things were alright with Papa again.

"Is Papa still angry with you?" She asked, seeing from the expression on her mother's face that this was the case. "Why is he angry? What happened?"

"I'm not sure, my darling." Anne said. "I think that he heard something that made him angry, but he didn't say what exactly."

"Does he think that you said something nasty about him?" Elizabeth asked shrewdly. "But you didn't." It wasn't a question, she already knew that her Mama would never do something like that. "Did you tell Papa that you didn't say anything bad about him?"

Anne laughed softly. "He didn't give me a chance."

Elizabeth frowned disapprovingly. "He should have."

"Yes, I should have." At the sound of Henry's voice, Mary's attendants dropped into deep curtseys, keeping their heads bowed as their King passed them, and Mary was quick to follow their example, knowing that, despite her reconciliation with her father, her status was still too uncertain for her to be able to remain standing in his presence, as Anne and Elizabeth might. Henry only had eyes for his wife and their daughter and it was to them he strode, barely acknowledging the presence of the young women who were curtseying to him, and who dared not rise until he gave them permission. "Hello, sweetheart." He said softly, smiling at his young daughter, who gave him a reproachful frown in response. "May I borrow your Mama so that she and I can talk?"

"Not if you're going to be nasty and shout at her." Elizabeth answered flatly, a stern look on her childish face. "It's not nice to shout and be nasty and you know that!" She scolded him. They had talked about this before, and Elizabeth thought that her Papa had understood how wicked it was for him to be nasty to Mama but it seemed that he hadn't learned his lesson yet! "I'm not going to let Mama go with you unless you promise that you're going to be nice to her." There were scattered gasps, hastily silenced, from several of Mary's attendants, who were aghast at Elizabeth's temerity but she ignored them, holding her father's gaze resolutely. "Do you promise?"

"I promise." Henry swore solemnly, placing his right hand over his heart. "I'll be nice."

Elizabeth stared at him for several long moments, scrutinizing his face as though to determine whether or not she could trust him to keep his word, before she finally nodded. She wriggled in her mother's arms. "You can put me down now, Mama." She instructed, waiting until her mother had set her on her feet before taking one of her hands in hers and towing her closer to her father. "You go and talk to Papa." She instructed solemnly. "He's going to be nice this time. I'll stay here with Mary until you're finished, then you can come and finish putting me to bed. Together." She added impulsively, thinking that it would be very nice to have both of her parents put her to bed, and kiss her goodnight at the same time. That had never happened before.

Now that Elizabeth had drawn attention to Mary, Henry turned to his elder daughter, motioning for her to stand. "Rise, Mary, please." He invited her, giving her a smile. He was her father as well as her King and he wanted his children to feel at ease in his company, in a way that he had always longed to feel with his own father, who was too stern and distant to invite affection from his children. "Will it be too much trouble for you to have Elizabeth stay with you?" He asked. "I can send for Lady Bryan and have her..."

"It's alright, Your Majesty... Father." Mary ventured shyly, feeling pleased and relieved when she saw her father's approving smile. "I'd like to have Elizabeth stay with me."

Henry nodded, reaching out a hand and laying it on Mary's head in a gesture of blessing. "Thank you, my pearl." He told her quietly, glad that Mary had yielded where the Oath was concerned and allowed him to welcome her back into his life. He wouldn't have liked to be obliged to continue to refuse to see her. Once Elizabeth had scampered over to Mary's side, taking her older sister's hand, he bowed in Anne's direction, extending his hand to her. "May we talk?" He asked gently.

It was a genuine question this time. He was leaving the choice in her hands, letting her decide what she wanted to do, and leaving it to her to set the terms.

Anne recognized this and she nodded slowly, placing her hand in his. "Alright." She agreed.

Anne's rooms were deserted when they reached them, without any sign of her ladies-in-waiting. They must have fled when Henry first hauled their mistress there, not daring to be present while the royal couple quarrelled, lest they should later be made to suffer for having overheard an exchange that was not meant for their ears. Henry was glad of the privacy. What he had to say was for his wife's ears alone and he had no desire to have prying ears overhear his words.

As soon as he and Anne were seated opposite one another, he began to speak, not wanting to wait for her to say something. It was difficult for him to say this and he knew that if he didn't say it now, he might never again be able to bring himself to say it.

"Before we say anything else, I want you to know this: I am sorry for what happened." He began, his tone sincere. "I handled things between us very badly, and I know it now. I should never have listened to Brandon when he came to me with stories about you. I should have seen what he was trying to do and I should have known that, no matter what happened, you would never betray me like that." Other men might have tried to encourage him to think badly of Anne, to make him believe that she had taken lovers and that she had betrayed him but he had always had the choice of refusing to believe them, of pausing long enough to think about _why_ they would say such things instead of seizing on their allegations as he had. "I am to blame for allowing myself to be convinced by their lies. I should have listened to you when you tried to talk to me."

It was strange; he had thought that it would be the hardest thing in the world for him to humble himself by making this apology, by acknowledging that he was in the wrong, but as Henry spoke the apology, he found that he felt lighter than he had before, freer now that it was in the open.

He might not have been the only one responsible for what had happened but part of the guilt was his and he couldn't deny that any longer. Brandon and Cromwell and Richard Rich and their like might have whispered the poisonous stories in his ear and concocted the evidence but he had listened to them and, more than that, his attitude towards Anne was what gave them the confidence to dare to spread such lies against her.

They would never have dared to try to bring her down if they did not believe that this was what he wanted, if they weren't certain that he desired, above all else, to be free to marry Jane.

There was no sense in him pretending otherwise, not now.

"You should have." Anne agreed. "But if you had, if you listened to me and believed that I never betrayed you, would you still have tried to dissolve our marriage? Would you still have wanted to set me and Elizabeth aside so that you could put the Seymour wench and her brats in our place?"

"I don't know." Henry answered truthfully.

If he had never learned the truth about Jane, then he might never have understood how much better off he was without her, might never have known how unworthy she was of taking Anne's place. He could easily have spent the rest of his life being fooled by the image of purity she presented to him. He might have believed that, even if Anne was innocent of betraying him, he still needed to set her aside so that he could make Jane his wife and the sons he believed that she would bear him his heirs... or the realisation that Anne was innocent and that she still loved him too much to ever betray him might have made him realize that he still cared for her, enough to want to protect her from everybody who sought to harm her or their precious daughter, and that he should give their marriage another chance before he set her aside to remarry.

He couldn't say what he would have decided, if things had been different.

He didn't know and he didn't want to lie to her by pretending that he did.

Anne seemed to understand that, even without him having to explain why he could give her no more definite answer than that. "I suppose that it's impossible to say what could have happened." She agreed quietly, relaxing in her chair as she looked across at him, more at ease in his presence than she had been in a long time, since long before her arrest. "Do you remember what you once told me, years ago? That we should always be truthful with one another? That it was the very definition of love?" She asked, waiting for his answering nod. It was a simpler time then, a time when they both believed that their love would triumph over all obstacles and were happily convinced that Henry would be able to free himself from Katherine easily enough, and that he would be able to make Anne his wife within a year. "I think we need to be truthful with one another now." She knew that she wasn't the only one with questions that needed answering.

Henry nodded, twisting his hands in his lap, feeling suddenly ill at ease. "You first." He invited. After everything he had put Anne through, she deserved to be the first to ask her question.

"Do you regret that you found out the truth?" Anne asked bluntly, laying her most crucial question before him and knowing that she could not shrink from asking it, no matter how afraid she was that she would hear that he was sorry he had saved her. She needed to know the answer to this one. "Do you think that you would be happier if you had never doubted that I was guilty, if I was executed and you were free to marry Mistress Seymour and make her your Queen?"

"I suppose that I might have thought that I was, at least at first." Henry began slowly, considering her question carefully and wanting to answer it as honestly as he could. He owed Anne that much at least. "I really did believe that I loved her – I'm sorry, sweetheart, but it's true – and, if I thought you were guilty and let you be executed, I probably would have gone on believing that, at least for a while, and I might have believed that she was what I needed, what England needed."

He could imagine that Jane would have tried to reconcile him with Mary, and perhaps even managed to convince the girl to take the Oath, as Anne had, allowing him to welcome Mary back to court as his daughter instead of having to hold himself aloof from her until she admitted the invalidity of his marriage to her mother. That would have pleased him, as he had missed Mary and would have been glad to have a wife who was kind to her. In time, he might even have been ready to welcome Elizabeth into his life, making himself forget that she was Anne's child and thinking of her only as his child, as a wonderful little girl whom he missed and who would be a charming addition to his family, should he allow himself to reach out to her. If Jane gave him a son, if God was kind and willing to overlook the fact that murder was committed to allow the marriage take place, willing to bless them with a boy, then he would love Jane for giving him his prince, even if he could never love her for herself, even if she could never be to him what Anne was.

Without Anne, there would always be a void in his life where she used to be and he knew now that that was a void that no Jane, no Mary and no son could ever hope to fill.

Nobody would ever be able to take Anne's place.

"I might have thought that I was happy and that I had everything I wanted." He told Anne, hating to see the sorrow in her eyes at the thought that she could ever be replaced. "But I would have been wrong. I think that, even if I believed that you were guilty, I would still miss you. I wouldn't be able to help it. Jane would never be able to take your place, nobody would." He leaned forward in his chair without realising that he was doing it, that he was trying to narrow the distance between himself and Anne. "I'm glad that I learned the truth, no matter what happens between us. If I'd killed you, I don't think that I would ever be truly happy with any other woman, even if I tried to be, even if I wanted to believe that I was. I'm happy that you and Elizabeth are still in my life." He said, praying that she would believe that he was speaking sincerely.

Anne nodded, taking in his words. She studied his expression carefully, searching to see if he was being honest with her. His blue eyes were wide and she could see the sincerity shining in them.

He was telling her the truth.

She exhaled slowly, releasing a breath that she didn't know she was holding. "I believe you." She said simply and truthfully, giving him a slight smile. "Your turn."

There were many questions that Henry wanted to ask her, many things that he wanted to clear the air over before they could move on. He knew without asking that she had never taken a lover, never betrayed him in that way, and he didn't want to ask her whether she had ever wanted to; under the circumstances, he could hardly condemn her for an idle desire but he didn't want to know if she had ever wished to have another man in her bed, on the nights when he was away, lying with other women and leaving her alone to worry about her future and Elizabeth's.

He squared his shoulders before asking his question, opting to begin with the one that Anne would probably find to be the most offensive rather than selecting another to ease into it. Delaying the question would not change the answer, or make the question itself more palatable to her.

"When the Lady Mary was living at Hatfield, and waiting on Elizabeth, Ambassador Chapuys came to me many times to speak on her behalf, protesting over her treatment and appealing to me on her behalf," he began, watching Anne's reaction to his words. She looked puzzled, surprised that he should begin thus, but he couldn't see any guilt or discomfort in her eyes when he brought up the topic of Mary. "He told me that she feared for her life, feared that she would be poisoned, so that there would be no rival for Elizabeth. He didn't say outright that he believed you were plotting against her..." He trailed off, feeling awkward. He and Anne needed to build up the trust between them again and she could hardly be expected to be pleased to have him ask whether she had plotted to murder his daughter. The question was insulting but he thought it was a necessary one.

He didn't believe that she had, not really, despite what he had said to Brandon about Mary owing God a great debt for preserving her life, but he needed to know beyond a shadow of doubt.

"Are you asking me if I tried to poison your daughter?" Anne asked quietly.

It hurt to think that he could believe that she would have tried it, but she had to admit that her behaviour towards Mary in the days when her stepdaughter was living at Hatfield had left a great deal to be desired, and could easily have lead people to believe that she meant her harm. She _had_ commanded that Mary was not to be allowed the privilege of taking her meals in her chamber if she requested it, unwilling to allow the young girl to escape the indignity of having to eat at the common board in the dining hall instead of in state as a princess, knowing that Mary would object to it but, to the eyes of Mary's supporters, that could look as though she intended to leave her vulnerable to poison, so that she could be rid of her if she ever needed to.

"Yes." Henry said gently. "It's not that I think that you tried to do it..."

"I didn't." Anne confirmed. She could see Henry visibly relaxing, relieved by her response. She was reluctant to continue, to admit something that must make him look on her as a monster, but she was the one who had said that they should be truthful with one another. She couldn't expect Henry to be honest with her while she held back from telling him the truth. "But I thought about it." She confessed, remembering her conversation with George, and how he had joked that, since Mary was seriously ill, they might be spared the trouble of having to meddle with her.

Everything had happened so quickly after Mary recovered from her illness; Katherine died and Anne became pregnant and, with the hope of a son in the summer, she could feel reassured that Henry would never dream of reinstating his bastard daughter if it might put the claim of their son in jeopardy and then, not long after her miscarriage, she and George were both arrested, and had far more to worry about than Mary and the threat that her existence, coupled with Henry's renewed affection for her, could pose to Elizabeth's place as her father's heir.

Their very lives were at stake and Mary was the last person Anne was thinking about.

Had things been different, had the Seymours not been an issue and had they never been arrested, if they had cause to fear that Mary would be restored, that Henry might decide that he would rather have Mary, a young woman, as his heir than Elizabeth, still just a little child, might George have once again suggested the possibility that they poison the girl in order to ensure that she would never be able to be a rival to Elizabeth, to ensure that, with Elizabeth as Henry's only living child, he would want to safeguard her position and guard her legitimacy rather than contemplating the idea of setting her mother aside when his next wife might never bear him a child?

Might she have agreed with him, and told him that he should arrange it?

It troubled her that she couldn't be certain that she would have refused to sanction such a crime.

If Henry was shocked by her words, he hid it well. "When I began to show Mary favour?" He asked gently. He had known well at the time that it would cause Anne concern if he seemed to be showing Mary more kindness than he did since their marriage and Elizabeth's birth, and he could now acknowledge that that was part of the reason why he had begun to treat Mary more gently, warning those at Hatfield that he expected his daughter to be treated with more respect than they had previously shown her and showing tenderness and concern for her welfare when she was ill, although he was also motivated by a genuine wish to see his daughter safe and comfortable.

He couldn't feel entirely surprised that Anne, fearing for their daughter's position in his favour and worrying about what might become of herself and Elizabeth if he decided that he would rather name Mary as his heir ahead of their child, might have considered the possibility of employing poison to rid herself of her daughter's rival, in order to ensure Elizabeth's safety and future.

He knew that he could never condone any attempt to harm his daughter and if Anne had tried to murder Mary in the past, or if he believed that she would try to hurt her in the future, it was not something that he would be able to forgive, but he could understand why she had felt that way.

"I see." He said calmly.

"I would never hurt her now, no matter what happened." Anne assured him earnestly, knowing that she would not want to see Mary harmed, even if she was named heir ahead of Elizabeth. She knew Mary now, and liked her and even if she didn't, after coming so close to being murdered herself, she knew that she would never do that to another human being. "Please believe me."

"I believe you." He assured her. This time, he reached across and took her hand in his, squeezing it gently. Her slender fingers tightened around his in return and she made no attempt to tug her hand away from his, content to let it rest there. The silence that passed between them was a comfortable one, finally broken when he prompted Anne to ask her next question.

"Will you listen to me the next time somebody tries to tell you something evil about me?" She asked. She might know herself to be safe from arrest and execution but that did not mean that, at some time in the future, one of her enemies – of whom she still had many – would not try to convince Henry that she was guilty of some monstrous betrayal or wickedness, in the hope that they would be able to turn him against her and ensure that he would hate her and wish her out of his life. "Next time, will I have a chance to defend myself?"

"I hope that there won't be a 'next time', sweetheart." Henry remarked. "And I can tell you now that, if there is, I won't be such a fool as to swallow whole whatever tale is spun for me. But I promise you that, even if I think that I have cause to worry, I will never condemn you without hearing your side of the story." He pledged. "And I will remember that you're far less likely to lie to me than most, and keep that in mind at all times. I won't make the same mistake again."

Anne's smile widened a little, and she nodded her approval. "Good." She reached out her free hand to him, and he took it eagerly, lifting it to his lips for a kiss before asking his next question.

"Are you sorry about all this, everything that happened, from the beginning, I mean? I know that your father and your uncle told you to put yourself in my way – I don't blame you for it; your father and I spoke about it, and I know that it wasn't your fault," he added, before she could try to apologize for that. "Are you sorry that they did?"

"Sorry that it started that way?" Anne clarified, not sure what he was asking her. "I'd rather that it had begun differently, that we could have been honest with each other from the start..."

"But you don't regret that we met, and that you married me?" Henry pressed eagerly, hardly daring to hope that this might be the case. "I know that it wasn't easy, waiting for the divorce and everything, but I think that we were happy together, for a while at least." Anne nodded her agreement. "Do you wish that you hadn't met me?" He asked, looking straight into her eyes. "Would you rather that you could have found a husband, a man who could have married you straight away, somebody who could have given you a peaceful life?" He couldn't blame her if she did regret their marriage, especially as she had had to deal with more than her share of difficulties before he turned on her, with so many people who denied that she was his wife and who slandered her as a whore. In her position, he was sure that most people would wish that they could have had a very different life, a life of peace and respectability with a kindly nobleman as a husband.

Being Queen had not been all pleasure for Anne and he knew it.

"No." She answered at once. "I wouldn't change it."

"Because of Elizabeth?" He knew that she would never regret their daughter's birth.

"Yes, but because of us too. I loved you for a long time, almost from the beginning," she told him, remembering how difficult it had been to play the game her family needed her to play when she felt guilty about deceiving a man who was offering her such devoted love and for whom she was beginning to feel love in return. She swallowed audibly before continuing, half-afraid of saying the words that would leave her so vulnerable. "And I still love you."

Henry felt as though he could have pulled her into his arms and danced her around the room but he held his enthusiasm in check, barely. "I love you too, sweetheart, truly."

Anne smiled at this but her smile faded from her face, replaced by a wary, fearful expression. "And what if we never have a son?"

"Are you saying that we might start trying for a son again?" Henry teased her, seizing on her question as an optimistic sign for their future together.

She gave him a stern look in response. "It's not your turn yet." She reproached him, but he could hear the humour in her tone. "What happens if we try and we don't have a son?" She asked.

"Then Elizabeth will be a great and very beautiful Queen one day, just like her mother."

"Will you still feel the same way about me?" Anne persisted. "Or will you be sorry that we stayed married and that you aren't free to be with another woman, one who would give you a son?"

"No." Henry vowed, meaning it. There were more important things in life than the fathering of sons, and if he could have realized this earlier, he might have spared himself so much grief. If God wanted him to have a son, He would give him one and if He did not, Henry knew that he could be content with that. He had Elizabeth, who had the potential to grow to be a fine ruler for England, governing the country wisely, and he had Mary. "I don't want a son unless he's your son too."

He didn't say it but he had no intention of putting himself in a position where he might have a son with another woman, and not just because a bastard son could threaten Elizabeth's succession, if he managed to garner enough support to set himself up as her rival. It might be his right as a man and as a King to seek pleasure with other women if he so chose but he knew now that it could never be worth it. Even if he could trust that another woman was lying with him because she wanted to and not because she wanted to be rewarded for it, it wouldn't be worth it. If he had Anne, then he did not need another woman, and taking a mistress could only hurt his wife and fill Anne's enemies with false hope that they might be able to undermine her position through the other women that might catch his eye.

He was not going to expose her to that threat again.

"My question now." He said. "Are you still angry with me for letting you be taken to the Tower, and for letting you be put on trial?"

"Yes." Anne told him. "I don't know if I'll ever not be angry about that. You hurt me, Henry, more than I ever thought you would. I never would have believed that you could do something like that to me." He was disappointed in her answer, she could see it in his face. He might understand her feelings, and might not feel any resentment towards her for her anger but he was still sorry to hear her answer. He released her hands and he lowered his head, staring at the gleaming floorboards beneath his feet. She rose from her chair, crossing the couple of steps to his side before asking her next question, this time of herself. "My question is: Can I forgive you for it?"

Henry looked up at her, his eyes filled with a mixture of hope and dread as he awaited her answer.

"I think so." She told him softly. An instant later, Henry tugged her onto his knee, his arms winding tightly about her as he murmured his thanks in her ear, and she returned his hug. "Provided that nothing like this ever happens again." She added lightly. "Have you any more questions?"

"Just one." Henry said. "Can we start fresh? Do you think that we can move on from what's happened, and be a family again? When we get back to England, we could go away together, on progress – not with the whole court, just with the people we want with us." He added, warming to his theme. "Can we get to know each other again, and see where things go from there?"

For answer, Anne leaned forward until their faces were level and gave him a quick kiss on the lips.

"Is that a 'yes'?" Henry asked, as soon as he recovered from his shocked delight at her gesture, a gesture she repeated, more slowly this time, savouring his kiss in return, before confirming her answer.

"It's a 'yes'."


	20. Epilogue

**_12th April 1541_ **

Henry's eyes were sombre, his hands folded in prayer as he waited in the presence chamber of Anne's apartment, outside her bedchamber, from which he was barred while Dr Linacre and the midwives worked. He would have given almost anything to be able to go in to be with his wife but they had made it clear to him that his presence would be disruptive rather than helpful, encouraging that he should wait outside, or else go to the chapel to pray for Anne if he wanted to help her. He tried to pray, tried to plead with God to protect Anne and, if He willed it, to give them a living child this time, but he could not focus on his prayers, not when he could hear Anne's cries, cries that rended his heart and made him want to forget propriety and run to her.

Maybe there was nothing he could do to keep their child from escaping her womb but at least he could hold her in his arms and give her his love and support while their child slipped away.

Few people were permitted to wait with him in Anne's apartment; her father was present, his expression as grave as Henry's was, his worry for Anne equally acute, and Anne's sister and brother were also present, silent and sombre, each of them aware of what was happening and how little hope there was that it could be stopped. Elizabeth was too young to be present and, although the little girl was with her mother when Anne first felt the pains that indicated that the child she carried was losing its battle to stay in the womb, Anne had pleaded with Henry not to let her stay and see what happened, so he commanded Lady Bryan to take her away to her own apartment, refusing to yield to Elizabeth's pleas that she wanted to stay and be with her mother.

He did not doubt that she was now demanding that her governess should bring her back to her mother at once but that was a command that Lady Bryan would know better than to obey.

No child of seven should have to witness such a thing.

Aside from Henry, the members of the Boleyn family and Anne's ladies-in-waiting, only one other person was present in the room now. Henry's daughter Mary was kneeling by Anne's prayer desk, a set of rosary beads twined between her fingers as she said her prayers, her attention focused on her devotions, so much so that she scarcely seemed aware that the rest of them were present. There was a time when Henry would have been convinced that Mary was pleading with God to ensure that the child Anne carried would not live to draw breath, certain that his eldest daughter would see the child as a rival and want it gone but he knew better now.

Anne and Mary had managed to forge a friendship between them over the past years, discovering shared interest and bonding over them, and Mary wished her well now.

Time crept by slowly for Henry as he waited, listening to every sound from Anne's bedchamber, willing his wife to be safe and get well. He almost killed Anne, through his selfishness and his folly, something that he would never forgive himself for, even if she was able to see past the grave wrong he had committed against her, and he pleaded with God not to take her from him now.

When one of the midwives emerged, carrying a tiny bundle wrapped in cloth, he could hear sounds of dismay from the Boleyn men, and all the ladies present broke into soft sobs at the sight of it, all of them knowing what it meant. He rose automatically, crossing to her side and looking at the bundle in her arms as she gently folded back the cloth to let him look down on the face of his child and reaching out to touch the tiny hand. A boy this time – though what did that matter now, when he would never live to be loved by his parents or revered as Prince? – perfectly formed from what he could tell but far, far too small for him to have any chance of survival. He had had scarcely four months in the womb, far too short a time for him to be able to grow strong enough for the world.

A babe so young could not even be baptised, not when he did not live to take a breath.

"My son." He murmured the word softly but he knew that the others within the room could hear him, and know that this baby might have been Prince of Wales if he had lived.

He looked at the tiny face for a long moment more before he finally nodded, signalling that she should cover him and take him away. She would know what was to be done to the tiny corpse that could not be buried in hallowed ground, as this would not be the first time that she had had to arrange such a thing. Perhaps it was not even the first time that she had had to arrange such a thing for him and Anne, although he could not remember the faces of the women who tended Anne for the other times, or know if they were the same women as before.

Dr Linacre did not emerge from Anne's bedchamber immediately but when he did, Henry immediately drew him aside so they could speak privately, in whispers so Anne would not hear. She would be distressed by the loss of another child and he did not want her to be upset any further by worrying about his reaction, or he was angry with her over their loss.

"How is the Queen?" That was the one thing that truly mattered, above everything else. If Anne was alive and safe, if her health was not in danger, then he knew that he could reconcile himself to the loss of their child, even if it was painful to think that they might have had a second child in the autumn, a baby brother for Elizabeth, if not for this loss. Anne was the one who mattered most.

"She is safe, Your Majesty." Linacre assured him. "Her Majesty will recover, given time."

"What happened?" He asked, wondering if there was something that he could have done to prevent this disaster, a disaster that he feared would break his wife's heart. He tried to think of ways in which he could have taken better care of Anne and ensured that their child would have a chance at life but they had taken every precaution this time, to no avail. Anne had even kept to her bed, at Linacre's suggestion, from the moment she learned that she was with child, eating the simple, nourishing meals he recommended and taking the tonics he prescribed, in the hope that the rest and care would help the baby grow strong. What more could they have done?

"We did everything we could to stop the Queen's miscarriage, Your Majesty, but there was nothing that could be done." Linacre explained apologetically. "We tried..."

"I know that you did." Henry cut him off, not wanting to hear his physician's protests about the efforts he had made to ensure that the baby would live this time. He knew that Linacre was the most skilled physician in the country; he would not have given him the prominent and honoured position as the first among the royal physicians if this was not the case, and he knew that the other man would do everything he could for Anne and for the baby. If it had been possible for him to save the baby, he would have done so. Henry knew that and what he was interested in was why Linacre had not been able to do it. "But do you know why the Queen miscarried this time? She was four months along... the same as the last time."

And the time before that, and that dreadful miscarriage five years ago that had almost destroyed their marriage, that had helped to set into motion a chain of events that resulted in him coming perilously close to making the worst mistake that he could ever have made.

Each time that Anne became pregnant since the son they lost the day she came upon him sitting with Jane on his knee, since they began to lie together as man and wife not long after their return from France, each time that they dared to hope that they would be allowed to have another child – and, boy or girl, Henry knew that he would welcome any child; as long as it was Anne's and it was born alive and healthy it would be precious to them, a tribute to the fact that they had survived the danger to their marriage and their love – they were allowed to hold onto their hopes only until the fourth month, by the end of which the child was always miscarried.

Three times now since they were reconciled.

"Yes." Linacre twisted his hands together, looking uncomfortable. It was plain that there was something he wanted to say, something that he would undoubtedly have said if he was speaking to an ordinary man instead of to his King, but it was equally plain that he was reluctant to voice his thoughts, afraid that Henry would take offence or become angry if he dared to speak.

"What is it?" Henry pressed him. "Tell me."

"It is possible – though I cannot be certain of this, Your Majesty," Linacre qualified hastily, "that when the Queen miscarried five years ago, the miscarriage harmed her body in some way." He did not dare to allude to the months of fear that had followed, or to the terror that his patient must have endured during the weeks when she was committed to the Tower and believed that she would soon be executed, terror that he could believe had a permanent effect on her nerves and her body's humours. That was a painful time, a time that neither the King nor the Queen liked to speak of, and it would be worse for them if he suggested that that too might have done damage. "She is still able to conceive, that much is plain, the difficulty lies in carrying a child to term. Perhaps there was damage that now keeps her from carrying a child longer than four months."

Henry digested this news in silence. If Linacre was right, then he and Anne would never have another living child but that was not what worried him. "Is she in danger?" He demanded urgently, terrified of what he might hear. "If you are right, could the Queen herself be harmed by this?" They could be careful from now on, and ensure that they did not conceive another child so that Anne would not go through the difficulty of carrying a child and the pain of miscarrying but if her body harboured an illness or injury, a cruel legacy from the child they lost when he was a fool and believed himself to be in love with Jane, what might it mean for her health?

He couldn't bear to think that Anne might die, especially if she died because of the way he had treated her years ago, when he did not realize how vital she was to his existence.

"I don't believe so, Your Majesty." Dr Linacre assured him, relieved that he had not drawn trouble on his head by suggesting that the Queen was incapable of bearing another living child, a suggestion that he knew could have resulted in his dismissal, if not worse, five or six years ago, and that might have had worse consequences for the Queen herself, who would surely have been cast aside if she was known to be barren. At least now she was safe from that. "Other than this matter, Her Majesty is healthy and strong and should live a long life."

"Thank God!" Henry exclaimed in heartfelt tones, knowing that if Anne was safe, they could deal with whatever difficulties or setbacks they were dealt, together. "Have you told her?" He asked, afraid of how Anne might react to the news that they were unlikely to have another child.

"No, Your Majesty." Linacre replied. "Since I cannot be certain, I thought it best not to distress the Queen by making such a suggestion to her. I may be mistaken, after all."

"You did the right thing." Henry told him. "May I see her?"

"Of course, Your Majesty. I have given the Queen a tonic to dull the pain but she is still awake, and I believe that it would help if she could see you." Linacre agreed at once, bowing deeply as he stepped back to allow Henry to enter Anne's bedchamber. He left the apartment altogether, judging it best to allow the royal couple some privacy so that they might comfort one another for their loss, though he remained outside in the corridor, within earshot so that he could be ready in case they had need of his services. As he left, the others in the Queen's apartment followed his example, filing out in silence before going their separate ways, the Queen's ladies waiting nearby while the Boleyn family and the Lady Mary headed towards their own chambers.

The last two midwives in attendance both curtsied deeply as soon as Henry entered Anne's bedchamber, backing out of the room to leave them alone when he gestured permission.

Once he was alone with his wife, Henry climbed onto the bed next to her, moving slowly and carefully so that he did not jostle her. Once he was lying next to her, he put his arms around her, holding her close to him and soothing her as she cried.

"It was a boy." Her voice was hoarse after screaming in pain and crying for their loss. "Our boy."

"I know, sweetheart." Henry said, rubbing her back with one hand and kissing the top of her head. "I saw him." Their boy would have been beautiful, had he lived, he was sure of that. No child born of Anne could fail to be beautiful and clever and perfect. "I'm so sorry." He apologized, both for their loss and for the fact that, if Linacre was right, he was at least partly responsible for it.

Just over five years ago, he berated Anne for losing their boy – _his_ boy, he had called the baby, as though he had nothing to do with Anne, as though he was not her son too – feeling furious that she had not taken better care of him when he was inside her, and furious that his boy should die while the wife he no longer wanted lived, instead of it happening the other way around, with Anne dying in childbirth five months later while his son lived and thrived, loved by his father, his sister and by the stepmother Henry would have wasted little time in giving him once Anne was dead.

When he thought of those dark days now, and of the way he had once behaved towards Anne, Henry thought that he would dearly love to be able to go back and berate his younger self, to tell him that there were far more important things in life than the bearing of children, even for a King who wished to have a Prince to succeed him, and warning him that if he did not mend his ways and treat his wife with far more kindness and love, he would regret it until the end of his days, as Henry regretted every sharp word he ever spoke to Anne, every time he shunned her company for that of another woman and every time that he ever caused her pain.

He had caused her so much pain, far more than she should ever have had to endure.

He couldn't take it back, much as he might long to be able to take back his cruelties and harsh treatment, but he could work to be a good husband to her now, the husband she deserved.

"We're not going to be able to have another child, are we?" Anne's question was a bleak one.

With five miscarriages in succession, there was no way that anybody could fool her into believing that she was suffering from nothing more than bad luck. Elizabeth was born healthy and perfect but since then, every child she conceived died in her womb. There would be no Prince of Wales, much less a Duke of York, no other princes or princesses to share the nursery with Elizabeth. For herself, Anne could be content with her daughter but she knew that Henry would always be thinking of his country, worrying about what it might mean for England if he died without a son to succeed him, and hoping that if they had a son, his succession would keep the country safe.

She had promised him a son but she had not been able to keep her promise.

"I think that it may be my fault, sweetheart." Henry told her, keeping his arms around her as he spoke and reasoning that this might be no lie. Linacre's theory might be incorrect, and no man would ever have the courage to tell him that he might be the reason, not Anne. "Katherine was pregnant seven times, and only Mary lived, and little Richmond was never a strong child, even before he caught the sweating sickness. Aside from Lady Blount, no mistress I have taken has ever borne a child to me – and it's not something that any of them would try to hide," he added, frowning briefly at this thought; he couldn't imagine that any of the women he had taken as his mistresses would hesitate to tell him if he sired a child on them, especially after the recognition he gave to the young Duke of Richmond, so he doubted that he had any bastards out there that he did not know about. He banished the thought from his mind, smiling at Anne reassuringly. "We have Elizabeth, and maybe it's a miracle that we were allowed to have her. She's enough for me, I promise you." He kissed her. "As long as you're safe and our daughter is safe, I'm happy."

Anne relaxed at his words, giving him a faint smile as she rested in his embrace. As the tonic Dr Linacre gave her began to take effect, her eyes started to drift shut and she fell asleep in his arms.

* * *

Her husband was waiting for her when she returned to the opulent suite of rooms they shared and, as soon as she entered, he took her in his arms, hugging her gently and leading her to a cushioned chair before the fire, commanding one of the servants of their household to bring supper and wine for them to share.

"How is the Queen?" He asked, once she was settled on her chair. "The child?"

"Anne lost the child." Her voice was soft and regretful. Like everybody around Anne, she knew how badly she wanted this baby and she was so sorry for her now that she miscarried him. When one of the maidservants appeared by her side with a goblet of wine, serving her before her husband, she reached for it automatically, taking a sip before addressing her. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, my Lady Mary." The maid said, bobbing a curtsey before withdrawing.

Despite the fact that she had been married almost a year now, and the fact that she had become a duchess by marriage, most people still addressed Mary as Lady Mary rather than her correct title of Your Grace more often than not, having become accustomed to addressing her as such in the years that had passed between her return to court and, later, to her father's favour, and her marriage the previous summer, and not yet managed to break themselves of the habit.

She rarely bothered to correct them, knowing that it would be difficult for them to break the habit of years, especially when they must have had trouble remembering to call her Lady Mary rather than Princess when she was first declared a bastard and lost her royal titles.

Mary had begun to despair of the prospect of ever being married, and to think that she would be happy if her father found her a humble baron to marry, as long as it meant that she could be a wife and have a family of her own, when Anne first sent for her to ask how she would feel about the prospect of marriage. The King had been negotiating with the Duke of Cleves to form an alliance with the league of German Protestant states, of which the Duke was a prominent member, and as the Duke of Cleves had a cousin who was still unwed, the idea of sealing the alliance through marriage was raised by his envoys to the King and Anne, who was always included in meetings with foreign ambassadors and who was treated as the King's closest councillor.

There could never have been any question of marrying Elizabeth to such a humble suitor, even if the Duke of Cleves' cousin was not so much older than she was as to make the match impossible. Mary knew that her father would never consent to such a match for Elizabeth, not when the child was his heiress and, to his eyes, the only Princess of England, and when a far grander match was already arranged for her with a son of the King of France, just as she knew that the match was being suggested for her because she, illegitimate in the eyes of the law and according to the oath she swore in order to win her father's favour once more and ensure that she would be safe, could not hope for the kind of royal match that was planned for Elizabeth.

Anne was gentle when she broached the question of the marriage, making it clear that this was a suggestion rather than a command and that, if Mary did not wish to marry the gentleman they were proposing for her, she would not be compelled to become his wife against her will but Mary was happy to consent to the match, and her suitor was soon sailing to England.

Duke Philip of Bavaria was a Lutheran, something that gave Chapuys, who still served as the Imperial ambassador to the English court and who vowed that he would do so as long as Mary was there and might have need of his services, some misgivings. Mary had her doubts at first, afraid that the Holy Father might condemn her for marrying a heretic, especially when she had already accepted her own father as Supreme Head of the Church of England and sworn an Oath to that effect, but those doubts melted away once Philip was presented to her and she found him to be a handsome, charming and, above all, very kind and gentle man. No man at court had dared to flirt with the King's daughter, even one who was branded a bastard, since Mary had been restored to favour so it was a heady experience for her when Philip began to pay court to her.

Since Anne and her father were reconciled, she had watched the love they shared, a tender devotion that made her heart ache to see it, and Philip was offering her the same devotion.

When he asked her to be his wife, she agreed without a moment's hesitation.

He was not a wealthy man, for all that he could boast royal blood and connections with various ducal houses, and he did not have a kingdom or a dukedom of his own to which he could take her after the wedding but that didn't matter to Mary – in fact, it was a blessing in a way, because it meant that they could make their home in England and she did not need to leave her homeland.

Her father had dowered her with generous estates, as well as ordering that a fine palace in London should be built for them and giving his new son-in-law the title of Duke of Somerset so that his daughter and grandchildren could enjoy the pre-eminence of the highest rank of the peerage, receiving them both at court with near-royal honours and ensuring that they would occupy a grand suite of rooms when they visited there, with a retinue of two dozen servants to tend to their needs, including four ladies-in-waiting for Mary, and four gentlemen to attend Philip.

Somerset House would be finished by the end of the year, as her father was paying a fortune to hire more builders and craftsmen to ensure that it would be ready for them as soon as it possibly could, and that it would be as splendid a palace as they could wish for. Maybe they would be able to spend Christmas under their own roof, and receive her father and Anne there soon afterwards.

Philip was a good man and a loving husband and he had never given Mary cause to doubt the wisdom of her decision to marry him, even for a moment. Virtually everybody at court seemed to like and esteem him, from her father and Anne and little Elizabeth to the young lords of the court, who admired his manners and his sporting prowess, while the ladies admired his handsome face, some of them bemoaning the fact that he was such a faithful husband to Mary. As he sat before her now, making enquiries about Anne, Mary knew that his concern was genuine.

"It was a boy." She said softly, twisting a pearl rosary around her fingers.

Anne gave it to her last year, after she found it in her jewellery box while she was hunting for a magnificent diamond necklace she wanted to give Mary as a wedding gift, and she had recognized that it had belonged to Mary's mother, left behind when she was ordered to leave court to live at the More. Anne must have seen her mother use it when she attended her at Mass during her time as a lady-in-waiting, and she had brought it to Mary, telling her that she should have it.

"The King and Queen must be grieving." Philip observed quietly, reaching out to take her hand in his and knowing that she too grieved for the loss of a baby who would have been her brother.

"The whole court will, and the country." Mary said.

It was just a fortnight ago that any public announcement was made of Anne's pregnancy, with the news restricted to family before that, though the courtiers had the suspicions once Anne withdrew to her own apartments, where she spent her time resting in her bed. Throughout England, people prayed that, this time, Anne would carry the child to term and bear a healthy boy to be Prince of Wales and King of England and though, in her heart, Mary could never view any child born of Anne, whose marriage to her father took place during her mother's lifetime, as legitimate and entitled to the title of Prince or Princess, she had hoped that the child would be born healthy.

"They wanted a prince." Philip agreed.

Years ago, when she was living at Hatfield as a member of little Elizabeth's household, Mary had dreamed of escaping England, even though she knew that her mother would tell her that she should not disobey her father by leaving the country without his permission. She imagined fleeing to the court of the Emperor, believing that her cousin would arrange a royal marriage for her and that, with her husband by her side, she would have a partner in her fight to restore her rights as her father's legitimate heir and who would ensure that no child of Anne's would be able to hold the throne that was rightfully hers as long as he lived to help her fight for it.

Philip did not harbour ambitions to sit on the throne as her consort, she knew that.

While another man might have taken the news that Anne had again been disappointed in her hope of bearing a prince as an optimistic sign, believing that without a male heir, he and Mary would have a better chance of securing the throne ahead of Elizabeth if they decided that they should fight for it after her father died, Philip was only sorry for Anne and for the King over their loss, never thinking that this loss would leave them better positioned to supplant Elizabeth.

What surprised Mary most was that she agreed with him.

Her opinion about the validity of her parents' marriage and her own legitimacy was unchanged. Although she might have taken an oath to the contrary, she would never believe in her heart that her mother was not her father's true, lawful wife for as long as she lived and that she herself was anything other than the King's legitimate daughter, born in wedlock and a rightful Princess. While she loved Elizabeth, and had even grown to esteem and like Anne as a friend, she still wished that her father would restore her to proper place, even though it was an impossible hope.

However, despite her wishes that things could be as they once were, she was intelligent and could recognize that things had changed, and that the people now accepted Elizabeth as the Princess Royal and the heir to the throne. When her father died, the majority would be happy to accept Elizabeth's succession as Queen and, if Mary tried to challenge her, she would only succeed in dividing the country in two, pitting sister against sister in a civil war.

Her cousin the Emperor would not be able to help her; even if he was willing to commit military resources to aid her, Elizabeth was betrothed to a son of the King of France, who would be quick to intercede to send soldiers of his own to defend the claim of his daughter-in-law if the Emperor made any attempt to challenge her on Mary's behalf... and once the fight was over, regardless of which sister won, she would never be able to hold her throne safely unless the other was imprisoned, perhaps even sent to the scaffold.

Mary was not willing to take that step, just as her mother was unwilling to countenance war to ensure her restoration as Queen and to force Henry to set Anne aside while she was alive.

England did not need a war over the succession, one that would tear the country apart. England needed peace and if that meant that Elizabeth would sit on the throne in her place, Mary could accept that. She was married now, and happily, and that was enough for her, something that she was reminded of every time Philip spoke those three magic words: "I love you."

* * *

**_2nd May 1541_ **

When she had recovered from her miscarriage, at least enough to allow her to leave her bed and to go out among the court once more, leaving the apartment of which she had grown rather tired during her convalescence and joining Henry in his Privy Chamber instead, one of the first issues Anne raised with him was the question of the succession, a question that he had studiously avoided since her miscarriage, not wanting to distress her by speaking of their loss.

As much as she grieved for the loss of their child, and for the certainty she felt that they would not have any more living children, even if they tried, Anne knew that the issue could not be buried.

The question of England's future was too important for her to avoid it, or to allow Henry to do so in order to spare her feelings, so she felt that she had to bring it up since he would not.

"But I have an heir, sweetheart – Elizabeth." Henry reminded her when she raised the issue, holding her on his lap as they spoke, and trailing feather-light kisses down her neck, wondering anew how he could ever have contemplated allowing that neck to be severed. "Don't you remember what I told you in France?" He asked, wondering if she remembered that night and the questions they asked one another with the same, perfect clarity as he did. If he lived to be a hundred, he was sure that he would not forget a single word they spoke that night. "I meant it when I said that Elizabeth would make a great Queen – and young Charles is shaping up to be a fine consort for her, when the time comes." He added with a smile.

Last summer, just before Mary's marriage to Philip, Henry sent an envoy to Francis suggesting that, as the his youngest son, promoted from Duke of Angouleme to Duke of Orleans upon the death of his eldest brother, the Dauphin, was now twelve, the time had come for him to join his young bride-to-be at the English court, something that would not only give him and Elizabeth a chance to become friends so that they would know and love one another when the time came for them to marry, something that was denied to most royal couples but that Henry wanted for his daughter, wanting her to be as happy with her spouse as he was with Anne – happier, as Elizabeth would never make the mistakes he had made with Anne, she was too clever for that – but also give the boy a chance to be educated by English tutors, who would perfect his grasp of the language and ensure that he was taught of the country's history and traditions.

It was vital that the people should see the boy being raised for his future role.

England had accepted Elizabeth as heir, and he was sure that the people would welcome the succession of the little girl who had charmed them all into adoring her but they would not be as pleased with her husband as they were with their future Queen, not if his foreign language and manners marked him out as a stranger, and they would fear the prospect of England becoming an outpost of France, suspecting that Charles' ties to the country would lead him to champion alliances with his homeland, perhaps even dragging England into French wars.

To allay those fears, he wanted them to see that their future King Consort, instead of turning Elizabeth into a Frenchwoman, was instead to become an Englishman for her, even taking an English title, that of Duke of Clarence, when he married Elizabeth and being known by that title instead of by his French title of Duke of Orleans.

If they could know this, they would be reassured that they did not need to fear him.

Francis – aware that Henry and Anne had not yet had a son and thinking that they were unlikely to have one, and that Elizabeth's succession as Queen was all but guaranteed – was not prepared to lose such a fine match for his youngest son, a finer match than a younger son of a royal house could usually hope for, and had agreed to entrust the young boy to their care, sending him to England with his retinue of servants, to be brought up as an English prince.

Henry had had his doubts at first, half-afraid of the kind of upbringing that a son of the King of France might have had in that licentious court and wondering what kind of bad habits and unfitting behaviour the tutors he had engaged to take charge of Charles would have to break him of before he could be trusted to behave as Henry expected a boy who would one day be his daughter's husband to behave but he soon realized that he had not needed to worry.

Charles was a good-natured boy, one who was eager to please the family he was to marry into. His good fortune at making such a fine match had plainly been drummed into him for the past few years, since the betrothal was first agreed upon, with his father and tutors making it clear to him that he was lucky to marry as well as he was and, if he was not as clever and precocious as Henry's two daughters, he was still bright enough to be able to absorb his tutor's lessons fairly quickly and to benefit from them, picking up English ways easily and settling in well.

Anne was very fond of him, a sentiment Henry shared, and they both believed that he would be a good husband for Elizabeth, and a great help to her when she was Queen.

Henry didn't think they needed to worry about the succession but Anne was not to be distracted.

"Elizabeth is my only child," she began slowly, "but she's not your only daughter. We should restore Mary to the succession so that she can be heir after Elizabeth." She knew that Mary, as the elder daughter, should be first in line to the throne by rights but she couldn't bring herself to suggest that her precious little girl should be disinherited, even for her sister's sake, even if she knew in her heart that it would be fairer for Mary to be her father's heir, and she believed that, of the two, Elizabeth would be a better ruler for England but that didn't mean that Mary should be left out entirely. The fact that Henry had declared his elder daughter illegitimate did not mean that it was impossible for her to be restored to the succession, not if that was what Henry chose to do, and she wanted him to know that this was what she wanted.

When she and Henry fell in love and wanted to marry, she knew that their marriage could only take place once his marriage to Katherine was annulled but, although she was able to accept that, believing that Henry could be right about Katherine's marriage to his brother being consummated and feeling that the love she and Henry shared was worth fighting for, she had given little thought to Mary and to how she would be affected by the means through which Henry intended to secure his freedom from Katherine, never dwelling on the fact that, if Henry's marriage to Katherine was annulled, their daughter would become a bastard, or of what it would mean for Mary.

She should have thought of Mary then, and spoken to Henry about what could be done for his daughter – and perhaps Henry could have ensured that Mary would be able to retain her status as Princess, and a place in the line of succession after their children, if they tried to find a way, something that might even have persuaded Katherine to withdraw from her marriage to enter a nunnery when the suggestion was first broached by Cardinal Campeggio before the trial – but, while she could not change the past, she could help put things right for Mary now.

Henry's face was grave as he looked at her, studying her face intently as he pondered her words. Getting his Privy Council and Parliament to agree would be easy enough, once they knew his wishes, and if the people were prepared to accept that Elizabeth should be heir while Mary was excluded from the succession altogether, he could not imagine that they would make trouble over the fact that Mary would be placed after Elizabeth in the succession. It would probably please them to see Mary restored to the succession, as they loved the girl very much.

It was certainly something that could be arranged in law... if that was what Anne truly wanted and she was not just suggesting it to please him or because she believed that she needed to make amends for the fact that they would not have a son.

She had nothing to be sorry for and he didn't want her to believe that she did.

"Are you sure that this is what you want, sweetheart?" He asked. "One heir is enough, and when Elizabeth marries, she and Charles will give us grandchildren. If they don't, there is my sister's child." Although Brandon and his wife did not come to court often these days, Edward Brandon was a well-known presence, and was welcomed there as the King's nephew. As a grandson of Henry the Seventh, he was next in line to the throne after Elizabeth, and would be followed by any children he had, but Henry couldn't deny that the idea of placing both of his daughters first, so his line was secure on the throne and his blood would continue to rule England, was appealing.

Perhaps it was fitting that, as the King's daughter, Mary and her children should come before Edward Brandon, even if she was not legitimate.

"I'm sure." Anne insisted. "Mary deserves this."

"Then I'll arrange it." Henry promised her, before giving her a teasing smile. "Anything else?"

"One thing more." Anne told him before making her other request, one that made Henry's smile widen, telling her that she had done the right thing by raising the matter.

"Your wish is my command, my beautiful and beloved Queen." He declared, in a courtly fashion, his arms around her. "And there's one more thing that _I_ have planned, something I hope will make you happy, and our little girl too." He told her, leaning closer to her to whisper his plan in his ear, rejoicing when he saw her nod at his suggestion, her smile wide and joyful.

* * *

They told the rest of the family the good news in the evening, after Henry and Anne met with the Privy Council to explain what it was they wanted to do and to discuss the question of how best to proceed, and after Henry had commanded that his secretary should begin to draft the revisions to the Act of Succession, placing Mary as second in line after Elizabeth, so that the revised Act could be presented to Parliament for its approval at the next session.

As was sometimes their custom, they dined in the privacy of Henry's Privy Chamber, with family and sometimes a few close friends, rather than in the Great Hall with the court in attendance. Invitations were much sought-after by the courtiers, who viewed them as one of the greatest signs of favour, but very few were ever asked to join the royal couple at dinner.

For tonight, Elizabeth and Charles were invited – the former delighted to be dining with her parents and allowed to stay up late in order to do so instead of having dinner in her nursery, as she usually did, with Lady Bryan keeping a watchful eye on her to ensure that she did not eat too many rich foods and sweetmeats – along with Mary and Philip. Anne's father was also invited to join them, along with Archbishop Cranmer who was, as always, overawed by the invitation.

Boleyn was the first to arrive, bowing deeply to Henry and Anne before coming to kiss Anne's cheek and whisper an enquiry about how she was feeling. The concern in his voice was genuine and, unlike after her first miscarriage years ago, there was no hint of reproach in his tone, no hint that he was angry with her that she failed to carry the child to term – not that she had expected it.

"I feel fine, Papa." Anne assured him, returning his kiss.

"Your Grace." Henry greeted his father-in-law genially, motioning for him to take a seat at the table, which was already laid out for eight, with servers waiting in the background, silent and discreet shadows who would not move or speak until they were called upon to serve. On nights when they dined privately, the servers were even more discreet than usual, allowing the illusion that they truly were alone, with no prying eyes or ears nearby.

He knew that most people at court assumed that his decision to elevate Boleyn as Duke of Wiltshire shortly after their return from France, after he and Anne spent an enjoyable autumn on progress throughout the country with Mary and Elizabeth, was motivated by his decision to make amends for what had happened regarding Anne's arrest, a decision based primarily on his desire to please Anne rather than for her father's sake. Only he and Boleyn knew the true reason for the honour; above all else, Henry wanted to express his gratitude to Boleyn for speaking to him as he had that night, showing him his folly and how he had wronged Anne, as well as reassuring him that Anne had truly loved him, the words that had helped Henry make things right with her.

Few men would have dared to speak to him honestly, as Boleyn had, setting aside their fear at the consequences if their words angered him and saying what needed to be said.

Henry thought that he should be rewarded for that.

Boleyn was settling himself at the table when Cranmer arrived, entering hurriedly, terrified that he might be late, despite the great effort he always took to arrive punctually whenever he was summoned by either the King or the Queen. He bowed low as he entered, kissing Anne's hand and smiling nervously when she praised him for the excellent work he had done establishing a university at one of the large monasteries that was closed two years ago, when an investigation revealed that, despite the warnings the abbot was given to reform the religious house in his charge, he and his monks continued to live as licentiously as ever.

"It is Your Majesty who deserves praise for that." Cranmer told Anne, once the blush resulting from her compliments receded from his cheeks and he recovered the use of his voice. "You were the one who suggested that St. George's Abbey should become a university, and it is your support that has ensured that the project is a successful one, not my poor efforts."

"We will have to call it the Queen's University." Henry suggested, wrapping one arm around Anne and squeezing her gently.

Even if Anne was not the one woman in the entire world who was a perfect match for him, the one woman he adored above all others, he would still be glad that he had her by his side as his Queen. Few of his councillors would have thought to suggest that the property of the suppressed religious houses should be put to better use – and most of them probably longed to get their hands on the confiscated land, to enhance their own wealth – but Anne had voiced the suggestion once they returned from France, and Henry had never had any cause to regret taking his wife's advice.

The people were pleased to see that the confiscated properties were used primarily for their benefit, instead of enriching whatever noblemen could buy the estates cheaply, and they loved Anne for seeing to it that they would have schools and hospitals and farms that could be rented at very low rates, in place of the monasteries, convents and abbeys that had tricked them into giving what little money they had over to corrupt monks and nuns in exchange for pretended miracles and promised prayers that would never be said, and him for agreeing to her wishes.

Cranmer took his seat next to Boleyn, who spoke with him in quiet tones as they waited for the rest of the guests to appear, so that the meal could begin.

The arrival of the Princess Royal and the Duke of Orleans was announced by Henry's chamberlain before the doors were opened to admit a beautiful little girl of seven with shining red-gold hair, escorted by a tall youth of thirteen, whose smile was wide as he listened to what his young betrothed had to say. Lady Bryan accompanied them as far as the door but she did not enter with them, as tonight was a knight for the royal family to be alone, so she curtsied and withdrew. Once they entered the room, the young princess and prince made their curtsey and bow to Henry and Anne, then Charles released Elizabeth's arm so that she could run to her parents, to be hugged and kissed by her mother before her father swung her up in strong arms.

"How are you today, my little princess?" Henry asked Elizabeth, settling her more comfortably in his arms, so that their faces were level. At seven, Elizabeth was tall for her age and it would not be long before she was too big for him to be able to lift up like this, or sit on his lap. At this thought, Henry felt a pang of regret and he sternly reminded himself that it was the way of the world for children to grow up, even children as sweet and as innocent as his Elizabeth. She would never be able to rule England if she remained a child forever. "Were you good for Lady Bryan?"

"Yes, Papa." Elizabeth assured him. "Very good."

As he held Elizabeth in his arms, Charles approached Anne, bowing low over her hand and kissing it. "Good evening, my lady mother." He said, his French accent making the English words sound musical. He spoke the greeting tentatively, as though he was afraid that, after losing the son she was carrying, Anne would not want to hear another boy call her 'mother' but Anne smiled in response to his greeting, allowing him to take her arm to escort her to the table.

"Good evening, Charles. I hope that you are well."

"Yes, my lady mother." He responded. "The Earl of Ormonde taught me to shoot a long bow today." He added eagerly, referring to George Boleyn, who was now Earl of Ormonde after his father's elevation to the rank of duke. Although Charles had tutors who were responsible for teaching him of England's history, laws and culture as well as the language, George had taken the boy under his wing when it came to coaching him in sports. "He also said that my riding is improving by the day, and I will soon be ready to joust." He said proudly.

"That's good." Anne replied.

"Very good." Henry confirmed. "Elizabeth will need a champion, won't you, my jewel?"

Elizabeth nodded. "Charles is going to be the _best_ champion – after you, of course, Papa." She added hastily, in case her father might be offended to think that Charles was better than he was.

"Oh, my jousting days are over, sweetheart." Henry remarked ruefully, carrying Elizabeth over to the table and gently setting her down in her place, between Anne and Charles. "I'm happy to leave the tiltyard to younger men, and I'm sure that Charles will be a fine champion for you."

"I will do my best to always acquit myself with honour as Princess Elizabeth's champion, my lord father." Charles assured him earnestly, his eagerness to please shining through him.

"I'm know you will." Henry gave him a kind smile. It could not be easy for a prince to have to leave his home to travel to a foreign court, there to become immersed in the language and ways of his new country – a fate that was usually reserved for princesses, who were more often the ones called upon to leave their home countries to travel to the realm of their betrothed, where they were expected to learn new ways and to adapt to them, no matter how difficult it was – but Charles had done well, and pleased him very much. If he was destined not to have a son of his own, then he knew that he could be content to have such sons-in-law as Charles and Philip.

Outside the room, the chamberlain banged his staff one last time. "Their Graces the Duke and Duchess of Somerset." He announced before the door opened to admit Mary and Philip.

Mary had scarcely finished making her curtsey before Henry raised her and embraced her, giving her a kiss on the cheek.

"My dear daughter." He greeted her affectionately before motioning to Philip to rise and reaching out to clasp his son-in-law's arm. "I am pleased that you could both be with us tonight."

"Thank you, Father." Mary's pleasure at the warm welcome was plain to everybody present. Despite her reconciliation with her father almost five years previously, and despite the fact that both Henry and Anne had seen to it that Mary was treated with honour, as a member of the royal family, Mary could never feel fully at ease about her place in the family or in her father's favour, and was never fully free of the fear that she might find herself exiled from court once more. Although she was happy now, she could never be confident that her happiness would last.

Henry waited until they were all seated and the first course was served to them before he made the first of his announcements.

"I wanted you all to be the first to know of this," he began, watching as the others at the table, even little Elizabeth, looked up at him with curious eyes, wondering what he was about to tell them. He reached out to take Anne's hand in his before he continued, squeezing gently in the hope of softening the sting of his words with a physical reminder that he loved her. "As you all know by now, it is not likely that the Queen and I will have a Prince for England." He was glad that nobody tried to reassure him that this was not the case, or suggested that, if he was patient, his patience would be rewarded with a son. They all knew the truth and accepted it. "Elizabeth,"

"Yes, Papa?" Elizabeth looked up at him with wide eyes, wondering what her father was going to say to her. She had prayed very hard for a baby brother, as her mother asked her to and as Lady Bryan encouraged her to every morning and she was very sorry that her prayers were not answered. It would have been fun to have a baby brother, even if he was going to be King of England one day, instead of her becoming Queen.

"This means that you will be Queen of England one day, my jewel." He told her gently, pleased to see from the gravity of her expression as she nodded in response to his words that she understood what he was saying, and knew that it would not all be fun. No woman had ever held the English throne without having it snatched from her, but he was sure that if any woman would manage to hold her crown and rule over England successfully, it would be Elizabeth. "Do you remember what I told you when you became Princess Royal? That the first prince is given the title of Prince of Wales, to show that he is the heir to the throne and will be King one day?"

"Yes, Papa." Elizabeth might have been very little then, not even three, but she could remember it clearly. The ceremony was one of her happiest memories from when she was very small.

"Your mother and I have spoken about it and we decided that, since we know that you are going to be Queen one day, you should have the title of Princess of Wales now." Henry told her, smiling at the delighted astonishment on her face. When he spoke about it with his Privy Council, they were initially dubious about the prospect of formally investing a daughter with the title of Princess of Wales – and even with Mary, he never formally created her Princess of Wales, though she was often addressed as such once he sent her to Ludlow Castle with her household, and had adopted the title informally – but they agreed that it would be possible to grant Elizabeth the title, if special Letters Patent and legislation was introduced, and Henry was determined to see it done.

Elizabeth was his heiress and he wanted he to enjoy all the honours given to other English heirs.

He and Anne were both in agreement that there would be no question of sending Elizabeth away from court to preside over an establishment at Ludlow Castle, not yet, but in the future, when she and Charles were married, it would be a good idea to allow the young couple to have their household there, so that Elizabeth could govern Wales with the help of the Privy Council chosen to assist her in that task, to give her and Charles a chance to prepare themselves for their future roles. Henry didn't doubt that the Welsh would be delighted with Elizabeth, when the time came.

She was a Tudor, and could therefore boast a Welsh heritage, but she was also a beautiful, charming and intelligent princess, one that Wales could take pride in and whose people were certain to take into their hearts, proud to think that the future Queen would live among them.

"Thank you, Papa!" Elizabeth exclaimed in delight, jumping down from her chair so that she could run to him and put her arms around his neck, giving him several smacking kisses in thanks. "And Mama!" As soon as she let go of Henry, she turned to embrace Anne, beaming at her.

"May we take it that you are pleased, sweetheart?" Henry asked teasingly.

"Very, very, very pleased." Elizabeth insisted, placing more and more stress on each 'very'.

Anne hugged her daughter, kissing her cheek. "I'm so proud of you, my darling." She told her, holding Elizabeth close. Despite Elizabeth's youth and the enthusiastic, childlike delight on her face, Anne was sure that there was already something truly regal about her precious little girl, as though Nature had already marked Elizabeth out as a future Queen. Looking at her now, it was very easy for her to believe that Elizabeth was born to rule. She was kissing Elizabeth again when she glanced in Mary's direction, and saw the expression on her face.

There was no bitterness in Mary's face.

Despite the fact that Elizabeth's position as heir was to be publicly emphasised again, something that would make it plain that Mary was not her father's choice as his heir, Mary was smiling at Elizabeth's infectious delight in the honour that would soon be bestowed upon her, feeling pleased for her sister without resenting the idea that Elizabeth should be honoured above her. There was a hint of sadness in her eyes, however, one that let Anne know that, while Mary might not begrudge Elizabeth the honours she received, it hurt to know that she would never again be honoured thus, as she was when she was a child, before Elizabeth was born.

She released Elizabeth, who hastened over to her grandfather to receive his kisses and congratulations, along with those of Charles, before turning to smile at her stepdaughter. "Your father and I also have some news for you, Mary." She said gently, looking up at Henry to prompt him to give Mary her share of the good news. Restoring Mary to the line of succession might have been her suggestion but she knew that the news would mean more from Mary if it came from her father than it ever could if it came from her.

Henry caught her meaning and nodded, turning his attention to Mary. "You know that Elizabeth is going to be our only child," he told her, gesturing to himself and Anne, "and, God willing, she and Charles here will give England a fine family of princes and princesses but..." He hesitated, not liking to voice the thought that Elizabeth and Charles might be childless, afraid to ill-wish his daughter, and even more unwilling to allow himself to think that Elizabeth might die before she reached adulthood. Such contingencies had to be planned for but that didn't mean that he needed to speak of them aloud, least of all in front of Elizabeth herself, who would be distressed by the suggestion. Mary would know what he meant without him having to spell it out. "The Queen pointed out to me that it would be wise for us to secure the succession as much as we possibly could, and she made a suggestion that I was happy to agree with."

Mary held her breath, not daring to believe that her father would say what she thought he would say. Under the table, she felt Philip take her hand in his and squeeze it gently.

Henry rose from his place at the table, moving around to stand in front of Mary, who rose to her feet as he approached her, so that they stood face to face. He cupped his eldest daughter's face between his two hands, drawing her gently towards him and kissing her on the forehead. "At the Parliament's sitting next week, I intend to see to it that a second Act of Succession is passed," he told Mary quietly, "one that will make you the next heir to the throne after Elizabeth."

"Your Majesty..." Mary swayed at the news, her face growing pale with shock.

Henry caught her in his arms before she could stumble. "I've got you." He told her, waiting until she was steady on her feet and the colour returned to her cheeks before he released her. He leaned close to her ear, speaking in a whisper. "Are you happy, Mary?"

"Yes, Your Majesty... Yes, Father... Thank you..." Mary tried to voice her thoughts, wanting to express her gratitude at this unexpected boon. "It's more than I could have hoped for." She said honestly, knowing that, while she might see herself as having more of a right to sit on the throne than Elizabeth did, it was a miracle that her father had decided to restore her. Although his manner towards her had been very loving since her restoration, and over the past years, she had never expected that he would take the step of restoring her to the succession, believing that he would be too proud to do so when he was the one who declared that she was no longer his heir.

She was so thankful to have been wrong!

"There's more." Henry told her softly, turning to catch Anne's eyes. "My love?" He prompted her. This was Anne's idea, and he wanted Mary to fully appreciate that her stepmother was the one to whom she owed the most thanks for her good fortune. Anne hesitated, unsure whether she should be the one to say it or if she should let him do it, but he gave her an encouraging nod. "We shouldn't keep poor Mary in suspense, my love." He pointed out good-humouredly, waiting for Anne to stand and move over to them before he released Mary.

When Anne tentatively extended her hand, Mary took it and the two women looked into one another's eyes for a long moment before Anne began to speak.

"Your father told you that you are to be restored to the line of succession," Anne said, watching Mary's reaction and praying that her stepdaughter would understand why she had not advocated that she should be made heir ahead of Elizabeth, as the elder sister, and forgive her for the mother's pride that would not allow her to recommend that her child should take second place. "And because of this, we both want you to be known, from now on, as Princess Mary."

This time, Henry half-expected his elder daughter to swoon in shock and he was quick to catch her before she could begin to sway, gently lowering her into her chair and patting her hand. Philip's arms were around Mary as soon as she was seated, and he whispered his congratulations into her ear, well aware of how much this would mean to her.

Elizabeth clapped her hands in pleased approval. "Now you are a Princess too, Mary!"

Henry lifted his younger daughter into his arms again, swinging her around, glad to see that Elizabeth was not jealous to lose her standing as England's only princess. "She is indeed."

"A toast!" Boleyn called, rising to his feet and raising his goblet of wine. His smile was a broad one, the happiness in the room infecting him as well, leaving him unable to regret his daughter's generosity in suggesting that Mary should be restored to the succession, or to fret about the potential difficulties Elizabeth might face as a result. "To the Princess of Wales and Princess Mary!"

Glasses were raised and the toast echoed by six pleased voices.

"To the Princess of Wales and Princess Mary!"

* * *

**_19th May 1541_ **

The ceremony was more magnificent than the one that had invested Elizabeth with the titles of Duchess of York and Princess Royal almost five years ago, even more magnificent than the ceremony that would have marked the investiture of a Prince of Wales with his title. Henry was determined that this would be a day for his country to remember and he spared no expense in seeing to it that this would be the case. England would have a Princess of Wales, and every man, woman and child in his kingdom would know that she was as honoured and as valued as a Prince.

His original intention was that the ceremony elevating Elizabeth should take place on the 17th, marking the fifth anniversary of the day Anne was released from the Tower and he had begun to make amends for the greatest mistake of his life and a date that had become, to his mind, a sacred day of celebration and thanksgiving, but they were unable to make the necessary preparations in time, and the ceremony and accompanying celebrations were delayed by two days.

The 19th of May.

Something about the date sent chills down his spine and, when he took Anne's hand in his, feeling a sudden need to reassure himself that she truly was standing by his side, alive and safe, he could feel that her hand was cold and trembling slightly, as though she too was affected by the date.

They sat on their thrones on the dais, wearing their finest clothes and jewels. Henry wore his crown and Anne wore St. Edward's crown, the crown she wore for her coronation. The gold embroidery on their clothes and the gold of their jewels and crowns gleamed as the sun streamed through the tall windows of the Great Hall, illuminating them both so that they glowed.

This time, unlike when Elizabeth was given her titles as Duchess of York and Princess Royal, they were not alone on the dais. Charles stood at Henry's side, a pace or two away, looking handsome in white satin and cloth of gold, a ducal coronet on his head, waiting for his betrothed to appear, and Mary and Philip were standing at Anne's side, Mary's rank as Princess allowing them the honour of standing there next to the King and Queen.

Henry thought that Mary looked beautiful, more beautiful than she had on any day since her wedding day, when it filled him with pride to be able to escort her down the aisle of the Chapel Royal to the altar where Philip was waiting to make her his bride. Mary wore white that day, her face covered by an exquisite veil, so fine that it couldn't conceal her features and beautifully embroidered by Mary and her ladies. Today, she wore purple, as was now her right, and a jewelled coronet that proclaimed that she was, once more, a Princess of England.

Philip was by her side, tall and handsome and with eyes for nobody but Mary.

A hush fell over the Great Hall as the chamberlain banged on the floor three times before announcing Elizabeth's arrival ceremoniously. "Her Highness the Princess Elizabeth, Princess Royal and Duchess of York."

The crowd of courtiers parted as Elizabeth approached, making Henry think of the way the Red Sea parted before Moses. The nobility and gentry swept deep obeisances at the approach of their future sovereign, keeping their eyes downcast until Elizabeth had passed them by and they could straighten to watch the ceremony unfold.

Elizabeth's long, heavy train was carried by the Duchess of Norfolk and supported by two of her maids of honour, with the other young ladies assigned to Elizabeth's household following in procession, their smiles showing their delight at their little mistress' elevation. Four noble lords were chosen for the honour of carrying the cloth of gold canopy of estate over Elizabeth's head, and Edward Brandon, newly ennobled as Earl of Lincoln in honour of the occasion, walked at the head of the procession, carrying a cushion on which a new coronet, more intricate than the one Elizabeth was wearing at present, and more lavishly encrusted with jewels, was placed.

Henry rose as his little daughter approached, holding out his hands to her to help her kneel down on the plump, purple velvet cushion waiting for her at the foot of the dais. The Duchess of Norfolk and Elizabeth's maids of honour carefully straightened her train before sweeping deep curtsies and stepping back, so that Elizabeth could enjoy centre stage at the ceremony in her honour.

He had practiced the words of the ceremony so often since he decided to give Elizabeth this title, the greatest title he could give her until his death made her the new Queen of England, and they came to Henry effortlessly now, allowing him to speak the ceremonious words without the slightest faltering or hesitation that might make some of those listening think that he was reluctant to bestow this honour on Elizabeth, and that he might regret his decision to do so.

He had no regrets, not about giving Elizabeth this title and certainly not about the decision he had made that led to him remaining married to Anne instead of wedding another woman, one who might have given him a son but who would never be as dear to his heart as Anne was.

The ceremony was a fairly brief one, and it passed Henry by in a haze, as he focused less on the words he was speaking than on the pride and deep love he felt for the little girl kneeling before him, and his delight to be able to honour her. Once the words were spoken, and Archbishop Cranmer stepped forward to bless Elizabeth, leading the nobles present in a prayer that, when the time came for her to rule England, she would be ready for the task God called her to, Henry motioned for Edward Brandon to step forward. He bent down to gently lift the coronet Elizabeth was wearing, the one he had commissioned for her in honour of her elevation as Princess Royal, from her head, laying his hand on her bared head in a gesture of blessing before he took the other coronet from Edward Brandon, and set it on Elizabeth's head.

He extended his hands to Elizabeth to help her to her feet, bending down to kiss his jewel of all England on both cheeks. When he spoke her full title, he savoured the words.

"Her Highness the Princess Elizabeth, Princess of Wales, Princess Royal and Duchess of York."

He felt as though he was dreaming as he watched Elizabeth curtsey gravely, holding her head high so that her coronet would not be knocked askew, and then turn to receive the obeisances of the court. He watched in silence, the smile on his face growing broader and broader, as Charles stepped forward to make a deep bow to Elizabeth, who gave him her hand to kiss and allowed him to take her arm. When Elizabeth gave him a quizzical look, wondering if she and Charles should lead the way into the banquet in honour of her elevation or if she should wait for him and Anne to precede them, he smiled at her, shaking his head.

"This is your day, sweetheart." He told her. He and Anne had discussed it already, and decided that they should absent themselves from the banquet, as he had absented himself from Anne's coronation feast, so that Elizabeth could sit in the place of honour and preside over the feast.

This was Elizabeth's day, and they both wanted her to enjoy it to the full.

With the new Princess of Wales and the Duke of Orleans leading the way, the rest of the court followed, first Princess Mary and the Duke of Somerset, then the rest of the courtiers in order of precedence, until the Great Hall was emptied of everybody except the King and Queen.

When Anne rose from her throne and came to stand by his side, Henry took her hand in his, bringing it to his lips for a kiss. "We have the most wonderful little girl in the world."

"I know." Anne's smile was radiant as she looked at him, curling her fingers around his hand.

He leaned forward to capture her lips in a kiss, putting his free arm around her and tugging her closer to him. They stood like that for several minutes, close together and hand-clasped, before Henry released Anne, kissing her again. "You've made me so happy." He whispered in her ear.

"Have I?" She intended to sound playful but Anne couldn't keep her tone as light as she had wanted it to be, unable to keep herself from wondering whether, despite his protests to the contrary, Henry might feel some regret that he had married her instead of another woman who would give him the sons he wanted, the sons he once wanted from her, before they knew that it would be impossible for them to have more children.

"Of course!" Henry answered at once, hugging her again. "I love you, sweetheart, more than anything else in the world – do you doubt that?" He asked, troubled by the thought that, despite everything, his efforts to show Anne how much he loved and valued her had not been as successful as he had hoped, that she might still harbour doubts about the sincerity of his professions of love.

Anne looked up at him before answering, seeing the love in his eyes and his need to know that she understood his feelings. "No," she told him. "No, I don't."

They kissed one more time before leaving the Great Hall, hand in hand, walking towards the gardens, where they would be able to enjoy privacy, as the court would be occupied with the feast, leaving the gardens all but deserted, with nobody to spy on the King and Queen as they walked, enjoying the privacy that was so rare for people of their station, and their chance to be alone with the one they loved. They had come through so much to be able to be together, to love each other, and to know that nothing would ever again come between them and their love.

There was no more need for doubt.

THE END


End file.
